


Actions Speak Louder than Words

by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Burn so Slow you Wonder if it’s a Burn at All, Alpha Derek, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Cursed Derek, Cursed Derek Hale, Dackson friendship, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Derek Hale & Jackson Whittemore Friendship, Derek Hale & Kira Yukimura Friendship, Derek and Jackson friendship, Don’t copy to another site, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Glacial Burn, Imprisonment, Jerek friendship, Kate Argent Is A Bad Person, Like they did, M/M, Magic Stiles, Magic Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical stiles, More tags in end notes, Mutual Pining, Nice Peter, Not that this is a ship, Or Maybe the Author forgot about the Sterek, Pining, Protective Derek, Protective Derek Hale, Protector Derek, Protector Derek Hale, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stackson Brotp, Stiles Stilinski & Jackson Whittemore Friendship, Supernatural world is known, The Author didn’t Forget, They just want you to suffer, Through THE SLOWEST OF ALL BURNS, Warning: Gerard Argent, Warning: Kate Argent, also apparently, but rest assured, idk what their ship name is, is a thing I need to tag?, it’s a broship, magic is known, past implied rape, stiles and Jackson brotp, supernatural is known, the slowest of burns, writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 434,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasterella/pseuds/isthatbloodonhisshirt
Summary: “I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s beenso long. And we finallyhaveyou.”That was a bad word. Notfound.Have.Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment.One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1437
Kudos: 3290





	1. One Day

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings all! So, few things to note - this fic is so long that I couldn't fit all the tags in the tags, so anything you're concerned about or want to review, please check the end notes of each chapter. If I didn't tag something that you think needs to be tagged (either in the tags or end notes), please do let me know so I can go in and edit them to ensure everyone has a happy reading experience. 
> 
> This fic is fully completed, and edited, ready to be posted. If you're reading this before it's fully posted, my repeat readers have no self-control and it's almost 400k so I am posting one chapter a day in an attempt to ensure they all get an adequate amount of sleep. If you're someone who chooses to wait until it's fully posted, or someone reading after it's been fully posted, I can't control what you do but please love yourself and recognize it's a monster and make sure you prioritize sleep! 
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone and I hope you all have a wonderful New Year! 
> 
> Also, mad props to [Adara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adara/pseuds/adara) for listening to me whine for like, 4 months, and not murdering me. Thank you \o/
> 
> Now with AMAZING and beautiful [fanart](https://faevorite-main-blog.tumblr.com/post/643347458164998144/from-the-best-scene-ever-in-the-most-beautiful) by the phenomenal [Fae](https://faevorite-main-blog.tumblr.com/)!!!

He hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night. That, or this one particular class was so mind-numbingly boring he was starting to pass out just sitting in his chair. The girl beside him kept letting out huffs of annoyance at his inability to sit still, but it was move around or fall asleep and this teacher was kind of an asshole so he didn’t want to accidentally pass out. 

One leg jerked up and down incessantly while he sat there, the chair he was on squeaking slightly so that every movement caused the sound to echo in his skull. He had his cheek resting against one fist, and was tapping a pen continuously against the page of his notebook with the other. His eyes skirted around in an attempt to stay awake, moving quickly between the man droning on at the front, the clock, the girl texting by the door, the one brown-noser who was taking meticulous notes. 

He made a mental note to make friendly with that guy so he could grab the notes in case he was still there by the time exam period came around. It would probably be weird for the dude to have him walk over and make small talk after having been there for two months without saying a word to anyone, but he was good at making friendly with people he needed. 

Not to say he wasn’t a friendly guy by nature, he’d just stopped bothering to try after seventh grade. It just got depressing when his dad showed up at school and told him time was up. It was easier to just keep everyone at arm’s length as much as possible. 

Lonely too, but there was very little he could do about that. 

He realized he’d at least spaced out—though hopefully hadn’t fallen asleep—when the bell rang shrilly and he jerked in his seat, knees smashing the underside of his desk. The sound was covered up by the other students quickly packing away their things, the teacher having stopped mid-sentence and not bothering to try and finish what he’d been in the process of telling them. 

He’d already assigned their homework, and he’d probably been as eager for the day to end as the rest of them. The teacher actually collected his belongings and left the classroom before half the students did. That was clearly someone who showed up for his paycheck and nothing more. 

To be fair, teachers got shit pay, so asking for anything more from them was asking too much. 

Stiles Stilinski shoved his notebook into his messenger bag and got to his feet, slinging it over one shoulder and following the other students out of the classroom. They all chatted and laughed with one another, the corridor filling quickly with bodies, but he neatly side-stepped them and offered smiles and nods to people from various classes when they did the same to him. 

It was Friday, after all, so everyone was eager to get out and get started on having fun. Stiles didn’t really have anything to look forward to, so his desire to leave was more that he didn’t like feeling suffocated. 

Bypassing his locker—he had one assigned every time, but he never stuck around long enough to use it—he headed straight for the door and got outside within seconds. He had to move around a group of Freshmen while they tittered eagerly about their weekend plans and the party one of the seniors in Stiles’ class was throwing, but he ignored them and just made a beeline for the parking lot. 

He was halfway there, walking leisurely, when he caught sight of the man leaning against his Jeep and he almost stopped. He managed not to, keeping his pace steady and his expression locked down while he approached him. 

“Have a good day at school?” 

“It was all right,” Stiles said. Wasn’t like his grades made a difference or anything, at this point he just went to school so he didn’t have to stay home. “How was work?” 

“Fine.” 

“That’s good.” 

Noah John Stilinski was a rather large man. Large in presence, not in body. He was a comfortable 5'11", only one inch taller than Stiles himself, with greying dirty blond hair and pale green eyes. He was almost a contrast to his son, who’d inherited more of his mother’s features, with dark brown hair and amber eyes, but they had similar bone structure and anyone looking at them knew they were related. 

It was probably why no one gave them a second glance walking past, chatting with one another and making weekend plans. Stiles knew what his weekend plans would entail, with his father standing there in the parking lot wearing a plain shirt and jeans. 

Today was the day. 

Looked like he wouldn’t need to make friendly with that one brown-noser after all. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Moving up the coast,” was the response. “Virginia.” 

“Okay. You driving?” 

“You can drive.”

“Okay.” 

Stiles moved up to the driver’s side door while his father pulled away from it and unlocked it. He had to lean in to unlock the passenger side, since it was an older model that didn’t unlock all the doors, then reached back to unlock the door behind him. He opened the back door to toss his messenger bag into it overtop whatever items his father had crammed in there, and then slammed it shut and climbed behind the wheel. His dad was already buckled in by the time Stiles was shutting his door and starting it up, so they were pulling out in seconds, heading towards the road. 

He didn’t bother to check if anyone was following after them, he knew they were. He couldn’t help the stab of disappointment that he wasn’t going to be graduating from this school given he only had a little over a month of high school left. He was positive he wasn’t going to get the chance to go to University at the rate things were going. 

It was much harder to pack up and move when university was involved versus middle school and high school. It wasn’t that he was super fond of this school, it was just that this was his senior year and he’d so been hoping he could stick around for longer than two months just once in his life. 

Looked like that wasn’t the case, and there was no point griping and arguing about it. He’d long since outgrown fighting with his dad over the constant moving, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. All it would do was cause a rift between them. Or widen the one already there, considering he and his dad weren’t exactly close anymore. 

Stiles felt like that was honestly mostly his father’s fault. He wouldn’t tell him anything, he just expected Stiles to follow along, obey blindly. He used to rebel against it, used to fight it, argue, be a little shit about it. All that earned him was his father’s disapproval and the man becoming more protective and suffocating. It was easier to just bow his head and do as he was told, regardless of how much it chaffed.

Regardless of how much it went against everything in Stiles. He wasn’t the submissive type. 

His life had been like this for as long as he could remember. Growing up, it was always pack up and move, not staying longer than three months in any given place. Stiles was fairly certain he’d seen more of the United States in his short eighteen years of life than someone who was in their nineties. They’d lived in every State, some more than once, and he’d been to so many different schools he’d lost count. 

The only constant in his life was his father, and this Jeep. It had belonged to his mother, a kind and caring woman who’d died when Stiles was too young to remember her. Sometimes he felt like it was better this way. If he’d known her, he’d miss her more. Not that he didn’t miss her, she was his mother after all, but he felt like it hurt less because he didn’t know her as much as he did his father. 

Whenever they left, wherever they went, the Jeep followed. His dad used to drive it up until Stiles had gotten his license at sixteen. Since then, they tended to take turns. Stiles was over-energetic at the best of times, so his dad preferred when Stiles was the one driving since it gave him something to focus on. He still drummed his hands on the steering wheel and bounced his left leg every now and then, but it was better than when he was in the passenger seat. 

Stiles didn’t know why they always had to move around. He’d stopped asking when he was fifteen and realized he was never going to get a straight answer. Despite the agents that followed them around and reported in to his father, he knew they weren’t in the Witness Protection program—they wouldn’t have been allowed to keep the Jeep, and Stiles would’ve had to change his name every time they moved—but he didn’t know what they were in.

Trouble, apparently, if the way his father was overprotective was anything to go by. He kept insisting he’d tell Stiles one day. 

One day.

He’d tell him one day.

Stiles wasn’t holding his breath anymore. At this point, he figured when he was done school, he was going to hit the road on his own. Either he got answers, or he was done. He knew he shouldn’t complain about his life. He’d always had a roof over his head, a parent who cared about him, food in his belly, an education. He knew he was more privileged than other people. But sometimes, this felt like a different kind of prison. He didn’t know anyone outside his dad, not really. He wasn’t allowed to go out alone, he wasn’t allowed to make friendly, he had to be in contact at _all times_. 

It was suffocating. And confusing. 

He argued, quite frequently, that he’d probably resent his father less if he knew what was going on, but the man kept his mouth shut and insisted he’d tell him one day. 

One day. 

Stiles hated those two words. If he had the chance to corner one of the agents, he’d have tried to get answers out of them, but they were under strict orders never to go near him. The few times Stiles had tried to speak to them when his dad had stepped out of the room, they’d backed away from him like he had some kind of contagious disease, looking terrified. 

He’d stopped trying by the time he turned twelve. It was hurtful and confusing, and he didn’t need any more blows to his already non-existent self-esteem. 

He didn’t know any of the agents by name, but he recognized them whenever they followed them around from place to place, or dropped in to give his father reports. The two in the car behind them had been with them for almost a year now. Stiles knew they’d likely be replaced in the near future, they never tended to stay on longer than a year. Usually it was exactly that before two more would show up, they’d have an overlap with four agents for about a week, and then the two current guards would disappear. 

They cycled back around sometimes though. One of the agents who’d been around when Stiles was thirteen had come back around when he’d turned sixteen. It didn’t happen often, but because of his memory, he was pretty good at remembering the agents’ faces. 

He was still waiting on the one agent he could corner who’d actually give him some answers. That would be nice. As it stood so far, no dice. Just him and his dad, driving down the highway towards Virginia to start yet another new life. 

Stiles idly wondered if his dad knew how much of a strain this put on their relationship. He must, considering how they were with one another, but it probably wasn’t helped by his dad’s job. Stiles knew it was government-related, but he could work from anywhere. He didn’t have to pick up and relocate every few months like Stiles did. Stiles was always the new kid, he always had to push people away without explanation, had to learn a new school, and figure out where he was in his studies versus what was being taught.

More than once he’d switched schools and was ahead in some classes or horrendously behind in others. It made for choosing electives in his last two years of high school a huge pain in the ass. And now, here he was again, heading to one more school for graduation. He was graduating in just over a month so he really hoped they could stick around long enough for him to achieve it this time. 

He’d be pissed if they stuck around for only a few weeks and then took off. He would probably lose his shit, not that it would do any good with his dad. He’d just get manhandled into the Jeep and they’d drive off, like things used to be back when he was younger. 

“You’re quiet,” his dad said, Stiles’ focus on the road ahead of him. 

“What do you want me to say?” Stiles asked, checking the side mirror before signalling to change lanes. The agents behind him did the same. 

Heaven forbid they should be in two different lanes. 

“Why don’t we talk about your classes?” his father offered. 

“They’re changing as of Monday, so I can’t really talk about them if I haven’t taken them, can I?” 

His dad went quiet, evidently recognizing the dangerous water he was treading. “Did you want anything in particular for dinner?” 

“Nope.” 

Another long, brittle silence. He didn’t know why his dad bothered even trying anymore. He knew what Stiles wanted to hear, and never gave him what he wanted. There was no point in trying to make small talk.

Stiles often wished the radio in the Jeep worked, so they could at least drown out the silence with some music. 

“Won’t you talk to me?” 

“I’ve got nothing to say,” Stiles insisted, reaching out with one hand to scratch at his left wrist. 

“Don’t do that.” 

The sharpness in his father’s tone gave him pause, because he didn’t feel as though his words warranted such a heated response, but when he glanced at his dad, he saw him staring at Stiles’ wrist. He looked down at what he was doing and obediently pulled his hand away from his left wrist, putting it back on the steering wheel. 

Stiles didn’t know what was around his left wrist. When he was younger, he’d thought it was some kind of weird birthmark, but as he grew older, he recognized it to be something magical. He had a dark brown band around his left wrist, a few shades darker than his natural skin tone, with lighter symbols and sigils interspersed within it. 

It itched a lot, which was why Stiles had determined it wasn’t a birthmark early on in life. And sometimes, it ached. When he got really mad, or upset, or basically felt any kind of emotion above and beyond the norm, his wrist felt like it was on fire. Like someone was trying to tear his hand clean off his body. The pain was almost blinding sometimes, and it was one of the fastest ways to get him to calm down. 

He used to pass out when he was younger. As he grew older, his pain threshold increased and while it still hurt and could make him black out depending on the emotion, it happened far less frequently than it used to.

Though Stiles attributed that to not having any feelings anymore. Most of the time, he felt like an empty shell, and he often wondered what he would be like if he ever managed to escape the overprotective grasp of his father. Would he even be able to be a real person? Stiles didn’t _feel_ like a real person. 

He hadn’t felt like a real person in a long time. 

“I told you—”

“Not to touch it,” Stiles cut in, feeling annoyance bubbling in his chest. “Yeah, I know. You’ve only been saying that for eighteen years. I can’t always help it, if my wrist itches, I’m going to scratch it. Or am I not allowed to scratch an itch anymore, either? Does that need to be supervised, too?” 

His dad didn’t rise to the bait, obviously knowing this could escalate quickly given they were leaving town, so he said nothing further and just stared out the window while they drove. 

It wasn’t a long drive to their new home from where they’d been in North Carolina. About five hours, a little less with Stiles’ lead foot. His dad gave him directions while staring down at his phone, telling him when to turn and how far to go before they finally reached their destination. 

The house was small and nondescript, same as all the other houses they’d lived in. Stiles climbed out and slammed the door, moving up to the porch while his dad waited at the bottom of the drive for the agents to show up. 

Reaching the door, Stiles tugged it, but it was locked. Predictably. He always checked though, probably habit, by this point. Just making sure no one else was in there.

Stiles turned and headed back for the Jeep to grab some of his stuff. Since he’d started using the Jeep to get to and from school, whenever they had to move, his dad always went to grab it while Stiles was in class and brought it back to the house to pack away their things. 

The houses they lived in were always furnished, so it was just a matter of clothes and the occasional knick knacks they picked up along the way. Stiles could comfortably count every belonging he had, and that was a depressing realization whenever he remembered it. 

Grabbing his messenger bag from the back seat, he grabbed the duffel that was under it and hoisted it out of the car and over his shoulder, then leaned in to grab the smaller box tucked behind the driver’s seat. He straightened and was heading back for the door when his dad caught up to him and touched his arm. 

“Wait.” 

“I’m not stupid,” he insisted, continuing up the porch steps and then moving aside. 

His dad stood so close to him he was practically on top of him. One of the agents climbed the porch steps and unlocked the door while the other went around back. Both of them had their guns drawn. Stiles just waited, the weight of his duffel growing heavier by the second, but he didn’t put it down. He just stood there while the agents swept the house, like they always did, and then moved past his dad when they both emerged from the front, giving them the all clear. 

Stiles headed through the one-story house towards the back and looked into the three rooms available. He always got first dibs, because he’d stopped caring long ago whether taking the master bedroom pissed his dad off or not. This house only had two rooms with beds in them, the last being set up as more of an office, so Stiles snagged the one with the en suite, putting the box down on the bed and then tossing his duffel and messenger bag to the floor. 

He knew the agents wouldn’t stick around long. They usually camped out nearby—house next door or across the street—but they didn’t hang out in the house with Stiles and his dad. Probably had to do with those orders of never speaking to Stiles. 

He had to wonder if the people who watched him ever resented him. Then again, they could always quit. Wasn’t like Stiles was twisting their arms for them to stick around or anything. 

Tilting his head slightly and pausing in his movements, Stiles listened to the two agents and his dad have a brief conversation by the door. It wasn’t loud enough for him to catch what they were saying, but he knew they were talking about the relative safety of the area. When he was sure they weren’t speaking about him, he went back to what he was doing, opening up his box and pulling out some picture frames and a few books. 

The rooms always changed, but his layout of personal effects didn’t. He put the picture frame of his mother on his bedside table, with the book he was currently reading beside it. An old school alarm clock and his phone charger went on the other side, and his laptop and other electronics went to the desk in the corner. Once everything was plugged in, he grabbed a set of wireless noise-cancelling headphones and stuck those on before starting up music on his computer. 

When he unpacked his messenger bag, he just ripped out all the notes he’d taken so far from his notebook and tossed both the pages and his current textbooks into the trash can under his desk. His dad always got annoyed when he did that, insisting he didn’t know when it might come in handy, but Stiles had an eidetic memory and thus didn’t concern himself with keeping things that were of little importance. 

Besides, wasn’t like he needed to get good grades, just passing ones, and he could do that without ever opening a book. University was still off the table, given his life, so keeping books was pointless when he’d just be getting new ones from his new school.

He’d finished unpacking his clothes and toiletries into the dresser and en suite bathroom, and was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling with music blaring in his ears when his door opened. His dad turned the light on, since it had gotten dark at some point since Stiles had laid down, and he moved to stand at the base of his bed. 

Stiles knew he was there. His dad knew that Stiles knew he was there. He still didn’t acknowledge him, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. When his dad tapped at his ankle, Stiles let out a slow sigh and reached to pull the headphones down. 

“All done?” 

“Doesn’t take an eternity to unpack,” Stiles informed him. 

His dad just looked around the room, nodding slightly in approval. He hadn’t come in since their arrival and since Stiles had snagged it, he hadn’t had the chance to see it. 

“Nice room. Pretty big, looks about two-hundred square feet.” 

“Two-hundred and nineteen,” Stiles corrected. “The average bedroom in a house in North America tends to be that size.”

“Right.” His dad looked back at him. “Dinner’s ready. I ordered pizza.” 

“Who’s gonna keep me prisoner if you die from a heart attack?” Stiles asked, but he threw his legs over the side of the bed anyway and tossed his headphones onto the new desk. 

“You’re not a prisoner Stiles,” his father said with a weary sigh, repeating words he’d said over and over for as long as Stiles could remember.

“Mm hm.” Stiles walked past him out of the bedroom and towards the new kitchen, already having memorized the layout of the house despite having only walked through it once. 

Falling into the seat closest to the door, Stiles flipped open the pizza box lid and grabbed himself three slices. He started eating before his father even reached the kitchen. When the man sat down across from him, Stiles felt like he looked older. Tired. Worn out. 

He wanted to feel guilty for making his dad that exhausted, but he didn’t find it in him. He was perfectly happy sticking around in one place forever, it wasn’t his fault his dad moved all the time. 

Most of the time, Stiles felt like it was his dad. They were moving all the time because of his dad. Something about him, about his work maybe, made him a person others wanted to hurt. Stiles was his son, and what easier way to harm the man than to go after his kid? Maybe the better option _would_ have been Witness Protection. At least then, Stiles assumed they’d stick around in some places longer than three fucking months. 

“I already made arrangements for you to start school on Monday,” his dad said, grabbing his own slice. “It’s down the street, decently close. Shouldn’t be a problem for you to get there.” 

“Never is,” Stiles countered, food tucked into one cheek and eyes on his plate. “Not like I can’t find my way around.” 

They ate in silence for a while, Stiles pointedly ignoring looking up at his dad. His wrist burned at the mounting irritation within him and he had to forcibly calm himself down to avoid injuring himself. 

When he was finished, Stiles stood up, slapping his hands together, and turned to head out of the room. 

“I was thinking we could go out tomorrow,” his dad said before Stiles could exit entirely. “Check out the area, buy some groceries. Don’t know if you noticed, but we passed a diner on our way in. Could grab some breakfast there in the morning.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

“Stiles—”

“I’m pretty tired,” he said, still not turning back to his dad. “I’m gonna turn in for the night.” 

“Okay.” His dad sounded defeated again. Stiles didn’t let himself care. “Good night, kiddo.” 

“Night Pops.” He started down the hall to his new room. 

“I love you.” 

Stiles didn’t say it back. 

* * *

Being the new kid was the worst, especially in small towns. Everyone looked at Stiles like he was a shiny new toy, the most interesting thing they’d ever seen in their lives. They asked numerous questions and pried into a life that Stiles didn’t even know how to share. He gave them details that he could answer, like where was he from—originally, Beacon Hills, California—and what his dad did—worked for the government. He told them hobbies when they asked, talked a bit about sports, about music, the usual stuff. But he couldn’t always answer their questions, which got frustrating when they pushed. 

He was polite, for the most part, since he never knew on his first day who would be worth keeping around and who wouldn’t, but by the end of the first week, he had a solid line on who warranted being kept happy so he could stay on their good side, and who he could dismiss without even trying. 

It was something Stiles had perfected after years of practice. They never hit the same cities twice, which meant he never hit the same school twice. And with only a month left by now before graduation, it made it easy for him to care less about hurt feelings. 

The jocks usually got the most butthurt, especially when Stiles didn’t conform to the status quo. He was meant to worship and fear them, but the level of disinterest he afforded them made it clear they didn’t appreciate his attitude. He couldn’t care less what they did and didn’t appreciate, and they usually left him alone after the first few days. 

There was no point in trying to beat someone into submission when it was like beating a dead horse into doing a jump trick. Stiles existed, and that was about all anyone could expect from him. 

He did meet one guy he wasn’t too annoyed with. The guy was quiet, and didn’t harass Stiles with inane questions. He also took good notes in class, and grunted whenever Stiles asked if he could borrow his notes up until now so he could catch up. It wouldn’t be hard, he’d read the notes once and be able to return them. 

Since the move to a new school, he was about right in almost all his classes barring English and math. English he was always behind on since not all schools read the same books, and math he tended to be ahead in. This was the first time he was behind on math, but he wasn’t worried. His new friend lent him all his math notes, and even let him borrow the books he needed to read for English, along with his notes on those. 

Stiles spent that whole first weekend catching up on school. It didn’t take him long to read the two books assigned for the year, and his new buddy’s notes were really easy to read and almost word for word. The guy probably wrote exceptionally fast. 

Returning the notes to him on Monday, he thanked him for his help, and figured he’d keep him around for a while, just in case. The guy seemed a bit like a loner, and didn’t look interested in making friendly with anyone, Stiles included, so he was the ideal person to stick with. 

It wasn’t until Wednesday that it occurred to Stiles he should probably ask for his name, but he didn’t worry about it. He was sure he’d find out eventually, and while he still didn’t know it by the end of the second week, he didn’t dwell on it. Exams were coming up the week after next, and then Stiles would be done.

And free. 

He was in his room listening to music and staring at the ceiling, as usual, when his dad came in to call him for dinner. They were having some kind of chicken stir-fry today, and Stiles automatically spooned mouthfuls of it into his mouth without really tasting anything. In his mind, he counted down the days to his release. 

He was eighteen years old, and once he was done high school, his dad wouldn’t be able to hold him hostage like this anymore. Maybe Stiles had depended on him for a majority of his life, but now that he was legal, as soon as he had his diploma, he was fucking _gone_. He didn’t care where he lived, so long as he was free. 

As if reading his mind, his dad set his coffee down, licked his lips, and started moving food around on his plate to grab another spoonful. 

“I was thinking we could do something after you graduate,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Go on a trip. Maybe we can convince the guys to follow us to Hawaii, if you wanted to catch some sun, get a bit of surfing done.” 

“One in five Americans dies of skin cancer a year, and there are up to four shark attacks per year in Hawaii. I don’t want to be a statistic,” Stiles said, shovelling more food into his mouth. Mealtimes were the most uncomfortable times of day for him, because his dad tried so hard to make like they were normal, but they weren’t. 

They just _weren’t_. 

“Stiles—”

“I already told you,” Stiles said, still looking down into his plate, “I’m not sticking around. When I’m done school, I’m gone.” 

“That’s not up to you,” his dad said, voice sharpening. 

“I’m a legal adult,” Stiles snapped back, keeping the wince off his face as anger surged up in his chest and his wrist burned. “You can’t keep me trapped forever.”

“It’s not safe for you out there. Not yet.” 

“Why?” he demanded, throwing his fork down onto his mostly empty plate. “ _Why_ isn’t it safe for me out there? Seems safe enough when I head down the street for school. Seems safe enough when we go to the store to buy food. Seems plenty safe enough when I’m stuck alone in this God damn house!” 

“Stiles, you need to calm down,” his dad insisted curtly, but the look he cast at Stiles’ burning wrist suggested worry more than anger. 

“Just _tell me_ what’s going on!” Stiles insisted, feeling the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come. “Dad, I can’t _live_ like this. It’s been _years_ , and I can’t... just _tell_ me. Who are we running from? What do they want from us?” 

“I can’t tell you that yet,” his dad said, making the anger inside Stiles spike once more. “When you’re older, one day—”

“One day, _one day_ ,” Stiles spat, throwing his hands in the air and inhaling sharply at the stab of pain lancing through his left wrist. He brought it down into his lap, rubbing at it under the table where his dad couldn’t see. “You always say that. _One day_ you’ll tell me. _One day_ this’ll all make sense. _One day_ I won’t want to leave and never look back. Well today’s not that fucking day.” 

He stood abruptly from his seat, the chair clattering to the floor behind him, and turned to storm to his room. 

“Stiles!” 

He ignored his dad and slammed his door shut angrily. Knowing his dad could just open it, he went to the en suite and slammed that door, too. He engaged the lock, and then crouched on the floor, burying his face in his knees and clutching at his left wrist with his right hand. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to rein in his anger, trying to regain control. His fingers were going numb and he could feel fire racing up his arm from his wrist. 

His dad was outside knocking on the door, telling him to open it, to just talk to him, to be _patient_. 

It was doing nothing for Stiles’ anger, and his dad probably knew that, because the man went silent before long, and Stiles stayed crouched on the floor in the bathroom, clutching at the markings on his left wrist, and struggling to breathe through the debilitating pain. 

He managed not to pass out, but it was a near thing. Eventually, he got back to his feet, thighs aching from the position he’d kept for a prolonged period of time. When he exited the bathroom, he half-expected to find his dad hanging out in his room waiting for him. 

But he wasn’t. Stiles was alone. 

He went to lie on his bed, rolling onto his side, and staring at the mark on his wrist. He slid his fingers along it, back and forth, up and down, trying to figure out what it was supposed to be and why it was there, just as he had been for years. 

There wasn’t a lot out there on magic. It was a relatively uncommon thing in this day and age. You couldn’t spit without hitting a Werewolf or a Vampire, but a Spellcaster was different. It was something people were born with, it couldn’t be taught, and it was in high demand. Spellcasters often kept to themselves, stayed hidden, made sure not to call attention. That Stiles had a spell on his wrist, something that kept his emotions in check, something that burned when he had _feelings_ , made him wonder about the person who’d put this on him. 

He didn’t remember it happening, which meant he’d been too young to recall it. Given his memory, he knew that meant it had to have been when he was five or younger. Stiles’ memory was a startling thing, and he remembered far more than he cared to. Not enough about his mother, and too much about his father. 

The frustrating thing was that he knew his dad cared about him. He knew he was trying to keep him safe from whatever dangers his job had wrought over their heads. But it didn’t mean he should be kept in the dark about it. It didn’t mean he shouldn’t know what they were running from. 

His dad kept saying he’d tell him when he was older. How old was ‘older’ at this point? When would Stiles be _worthy_ of knowing why they were running like this? If eighteen wasn’t old enough, then why was twenty? Or twenty-one? Twenty-five? Thirty? What if his dad never told him? What if Stiles just kept trying to run, escape from his comfortable prison that was _still_ a prison, only to be dragged back again and again? 

It wasn’t like Stiles hadn’t tried to leave before. He had, many times. The agents were just better. It was frustrating, considering they would help his father keep him in his cell, but didn’t have the decency to speak to him. Only to his father. 

Clenching his hands into fists, he buried them both beneath his pillow, his wrist still aching fiercely, and buried his face into the soft material. He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, but he must’ve fallen asleep because he didn’t remember hearing his door open and he started awake when a hand fell into his hair. 

He said nothing, keeping his eyes closed and face buried in his pillow while his dad ran his fingers through his hair. He brought his hand down to the back of Stiles’ neck and squeezed tightly. 

“I know it’s hard,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t understand. I’m going to tell you, Stiles. This isn’t a secret I’m going to keep forever. But you have to understand that there are consequences. Once you know, you can never _un_ -know. I don’t want to do that to you. I want to keep you safe as long as I can.” 

Stiles said nothing and his dad went back to raking his fingers through Stiles’ hair affectionately. After a long moment of silence, he sighed, and Stiles felt him kiss the top of his head. 

“Good night, kiddo. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.” 

Stiles let him walk out of the room without saying it back. 

* * *

The week leading up to exams was the pits. Stiles never had to worry about studying, and because he was up to date on everything he needed to know for all the exams he had coming, the revision classes were a complete waste of his time. 

His grumpy notes buddy—whose name he’d finally discovered was Adam—seemed almost as bored as Stiles was, though he still took meticulous notes as if he didn’t already know everything about what they were being tested on. Stiles felt like, if he hadn’t shown up when he did, Adam probably would’ve beaten out everyone in the grade.

Unfortunately for him, he had Stiles in his class, and with his eidetic memory, Adam was sadly going to have to settle for second best. Still, he’d likely get Valedictorian given Stiles hadn’t been there long enough for his grades to be considered in that decision. 

Small miracles, that. 

When school finally let out after the longest, most _boring_ day of his entire life, Stiles couldn’t get out of school fast enough. He moved quickly towards his Jeep in the lot, flipping his keys in his hand, and thought about his plans for the evening. Having no friends and limited entertainment made for very long days, but he’d started a new book the night before that was keeping his interest so far so maybe he’d read that when he got home. 

Tossing his messenger bag into the back seat as always, he climbed behind the wheel and headed out of the lot to go back to his new house. He was silently counting down the days in his head to graduation and freedom. Despite the constant one-sided discussions with his dad, Stiles had no obligation to stick around, and if he wasn’t told anything by graduation, he was going to make the agents regret taking on this job because he would run, and run, and keep on running until he finally escaped them. 

Easing to a stop at a red light on the mostly deserted street that would turn into the one his house was on, a sleek black Camaro pulled up beside him. Stiles saw it out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t pay any attention to it, eyes on the light and waiting for it to change. 

He started paying attention when his door was wrenched open so hard it almost got torn clean off the car. 

“What the fuck!” Stiles shouted, but he didn’t get much more out, because he felt claws scraping the skin of his chest and his seatbelt snapped backwards into its slot, having been ripped clean through. 

Stiles let out a loud shout as he was grabbed and manhandled out of the Jeep, punching at the guy who was pulling him onto the road. 

“What the fuck!” he shouted again. “Let go of me! I said let go!” 

The guy didn’t even react to any of Stiles’ attempts to get free, looking around tensely while practically picking Stiles up and tossing him through the open back door of the Camaro. Stiles’ head hit the opposite door and he let out a grunt, but scrambled into an upright position as fear lanced through him. His wrist burned with the emotion, but he ignored it as best he could while he flew for the still-open door. 

It almost slammed on his fingers. 

He went for the handle, but found it had been removed from the inside. When he turned to look at the other one, he found the same result. 

Scrambling into the front, he’d just managed to get into the passenger seat in time to see that _that_ handle was _also_ missing when his captor fell into the driver’s seat. Evidently, he’d been counting on Stiles getting into the front seat, because the second he was seated, his claws were out and at Stiles’ throat. 

He could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, and his vision was beginning to crackle white with pain and panic. He clutched at his left wrist, breathing hard and trying to focus while the Werewolf slammed his door and stepped on the gas. 

Stiles’ vision was swimming from pain, his hand tightening around his wrist, and he struggled to calm himself down. Something exceptionally difficult to achieve, given he’d just been abducted a block away from his house and now had claws digging into his neck. One wrong move, and Stiles was dead. Hell, if they got in an accident, Stiles was _definitely_ dead! And the way the guy was driving made that likely to happen. 

“Who are you?” Stiles demanded through gritted teeth, remaining perfectly still while the Werewolf’s eyes darted back and forth between the rearview mirror and the road in front of him. “What do you want?” 

The beast said nothing. 

Stiles struggled to get his breathing under control, his vision still swimming and his entire arm on fire, spreading up into his chest. He tightened his grip on his wrist, clenching his eyes shut, and tried to calm down, to pull the panic back, to just _stop_ feeling. 

It didn’t work. It wasn’t a switch he could turn on and off, and the longer he sat in that car with the Werewolf’s claws digging into the soft skin of his throat, the more he panicked, and the higher the pain levels. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d passed out from this kind of pain, but it had been a long time ago, and as his panic continued to mount, it took the pain levels with it, until Stiles’ eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out, barely feeling the claws digging further into the soft flesh of his neck when his head lolled forward. 

Waking up from that wasn’t a pleasant experience. For starters, his mind was in disarray because of the nature of its unconsciousness. He had no idea what was going on when consciousness began to return, and he could feel his cheek pressing against scratchy cotton. Frowning and letting out a groan, he hissed when he tried to push himself up, his entire left arm on fire. It took him a few tries to blink his eyes open, vision swimming slightly before focussing, and he found himself staring down at a hideous flower-printed bedspread. 

His muddled brain took a few seconds to process that, wondering when his dad had moved them to a place with flower-print blankets because, what the fuck dad? It wasn’t until the pulsing pain in his wrist demanded his attention that he remembered he wasn’t in one of his many homes and he hastily whipped around, falling onto his back and partially sitting up to look around the room. 

It looked like a cheap motel room, with peeling wallpaper, stained carpets, and outdated furniture. The TV was a fucking box, the thing was so damn old, and the twin beds looked like they’d seen better days. 

He didn’t focus on the details too much, instead more interested in his captor. His eyes found the Werewolf sitting in a chair that was wedged up against the door, legs splayed and arms crossed. He looked kind of bored, but his green eyes burned into Stiles when he glanced over at him. 

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The Werewolf just sat in the chair staring at Stiles, and Stiles stayed on the bed watching the beast warily. He didn’t look familiar, and given his appearance, Stiles felt like he would’ve noticed the guy if he’d seen him around. Dark hair, piercing green eyes, stubble, and cheekbones that would make models jealous. 

Great, Stiles had gotten kidnapped by a Werewolf model. Super. 

When it became clear his kidnapper wasn’t going to say anything, Stiles carefully reached up with his left hand to touch at his throat. He could feel small punctures in his neck, but nothing serious, as if the Werewolf had quickly retreated his hand when he’d realized Stiles had passed out. He glanced down next, poking at the rips in his chest, but the scratches across his torso were barely there. It was clear he’d only been trying to rip through the seatbelt and not actually _injure_ Stiles. 

That was good, at least. 

His eyes rose back to look at the Werewolf and he found him still staring, making no move to come closer or to speak. Stiles licked his lips, and reached carefully for his pocket. It was empty, which he’d already suspected, but he’d somehow been hoping maybe the Werewolf would’ve forgotten that phones were a thing. By the feel of it, his wallet had been taken, too. His keys had still been in the ignition of the Jeep when he’d been pulled out of it, and his messenger bag had been left in the back. 

Stiles literally had nothing but the clothes on his back. Maybe he should’ve felt grateful to have even that, he had no idea what this guy wanted with him, but it probably wasn’t anything good. 

“I think there’s been a mistake,” Stiles said carefully, trying to gauge the beast sitting in front of the room’s only exit. “I’m not someone important. My dad doesn’t have any money.” 

At those words, something weird happened with the guy’s face. His eyebrows lowered and his lips pressed into a hard line, the corners drooping down ever so slightly. He kind of looked constipated. 

“You should let me go. You don’t want to do this.” 

Still the Werewolf said nothing. Strong silent type, apparently. 

Stiles chanced a glance around the room again, taking it in properly this time. There was a bathroom a few steps away from him. It likely had a window he could escape through, but he tried to calculate his ability to get into the room and through the window before the Werewolf caught up to him. 

He didn’t like his chances. But that was only if he made a break for it. If he went to the bathroom like a normal person, he might be able to get out before the Werewolf tore off the door. He didn’t know what floor they were on, but given the cheapness of the motel, it probably didn’t have more than two stories and Stiles knew how to land without hurting himself too badly. He might sprain an ankle, but he could still run through that pain. It wouldn’t be nearly as bad as the pain that flared through his wrist every time he felt any form of emotion. If he could run, even just to the front office, he could escape.

“I need to take a piss,” he said bluntly and stood up. He moved leisurely to the bathroom, like he honestly wasn’t concerned about being trapped in a room with an unknown Werewolf, but paused when he heard the chair creak. 

He turned to glance over his shoulder and saw the Werewolf stalking across the room after him. He stopped a step away from Stiles, crossing his arms over his muscled chest, and raised his eyebrows when Stiles didn’t move in a clear, “Well? I’m waiting.” sort of way.

“I know how to piss by myself,” Stiles said, moving into the bathroom and starting to pull the door shut. 

The Werewolf’s hand grabbed at the edge and pulled it back open so hard that Stiles lost his grip on the knob and almost dislocated his shoulder. Great, now his right shoulder was aching, and his left arm burned. Awesome. 

He scowled up at the Werewolf when he planted himself in the doorway, effectively stopping Stiles from reaching out to grab the door again so he could close it. He just kept staring at him, waiting for Stiles to get on with his business. 

“You’re not gonna stand there and watch me piss,” Stiles snapped, shoving at the Werewolf to get him to back off. It was like trying to move a wall, the guy didn’t even twitch. “Get out! I need to take a leak!” 

The Werewolf raised an eyebrow at him, then pointedly looked over at the window. It was the clearest “Yeah, you’re definitely not trying to sneak out the window” look Stiles had ever seen in his life. Considering the guy had basically said that with one eyebrow and a head tilt, that was talent. 

“What do you _want_ with me?” Stiles demanded, making no move at all to use the bathroom. He didn’t need to, anyway. And evidently, the Werewolf knew that. Not a dumb brute, then. Most people hired Werewolves for muscle, they weren’t usually smart. At least, as far as Stiles had ever heard. Not like he made a habit of being friends with Werewolves. 

Or anyone, really. 

“Look, there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m not who you think I am. You should just let me go, I won’t sell for anything on the slave market.” 

The Werewolf gave him a disgusted look for that, which was interesting. So apparently kidnapping was okay but selling him on the slave market wasn’t? Well, at least he might not end up on the slave market, that was a plus! 

“I’m getting really tired of the silent treatment,” Stiles snapped. “You’re taking the whole ‘you have the right to remain silent’ shit a little too literally considering there are no cops here.” 

Still the Werewolf said nothing. Stiles felt like he was going to lose patience with him very quickly. Though he at least had some insight. A little bit. Not interested in money, not interested in hurting him, and not interested in selling him. So what _was_ he interested in? Why had he taken Stiles? He didn’t understand. 

“I don’t want to stand here all day,” Stiles said dryly. 

His captor said nothing—shocking!—but he moved aside so that Stiles could move past him out the door and back into the room. He knew it was stupid, and that he wouldn’t make it, but he had to try anyway. Stiles didn’t know why he was there or what was coming, but he wasn’t going to stick around to find out. 

The second he was past the Werewolf, he kicked backwards as hard as he could into the beast’s closest knee, making him stumble, and then bolted for the hotel room door. He’d barely reached it, tossing the chair aside, when the back of his shirt was grabbed and he was wrenched away from it so hard that he got choked by his collar _and_ his shirt ripped. 

He was slammed back against the wall beside the door, all the air punching out of his lungs so that he was struggling to cough and inhale at the same time. The Werewolf had one hand flat against Stiles’ chest, pressing him hard against the wall, and as soon as Stiles had enough control of his lungs to take a breath, he opened his mouth. 

“Help! Help m—” The hand on his chest moved up to slam against his mouth instead, the Werewolf’s other hand coming up to point a threatening finger in his face in a clear, “Don’t do that, or else!” 

Stiles ignored him and grabbed at his wrist with both hands, trying to tug his hand away. It was ridiculous that he was being pinned to the wall by a hand against his mouth, but he already knew Werewolves were stronger than humans were. Still, it hurt his ego quite a bit. 

When he shifted, the Werewolf accurately determined that he was about to get kneed in the balls and he moved quickly to pin Stiles fully against the wall with his body, pressing up against him and using his other hand to slam it hard against Stiles’ shoulder, keeping him in place. 

Then they stood there. Stiles continued to struggle for a little while, trying to break free or at least shout and make a fuss, but the beast just stood unmovingly and didn’t even flinch when Stiles managed to make blows connect. Honestly, it hurt his hands more than it was probably hurting the Werewolf. 

After ten minutes of useless struggling, Stiles finally gave up and sagged against the wall in defeat. The Werewolf waited an additional five before pulling away and taking a step back. He scowled at Stiles, then pointed emphatically at the bed he’d previously been on, his glare hard and cold. 

Stiles debated screaming for help again, but he didn’t want to get pinned to the wall for half an hour. It had been painful and uncomfortable, and he had enough experience trying to escape people that he knew a lost cause when he saw one. Now wasn’t the right time to attempt an escape. He’d bide his time and hit back when the opportunity presented itself. 

Glaring hatefully, Stiles obediently moved to the bed and fell onto it, trying to keep his temper in check since his arm was beginning to ache again and he didn’t need to pass out a second time today. He looked down at the magic band around his wrist, rubbing at it and wishing it would stop aching. He jumped when the beast was at his side, yanking his right hand away from his left wrist. 

“Ow,” Stiles snapped, trying to tug his arm back. 

The Werewolf just raised his eyebrows, then looked at Stiles’ left wrist. Stiles looked down at it as well, and wondered why the Werewolf was reacting similarly to his father. He looked back up and glared again. 

“I got it, let go.” 

When he tugged his arm free this time, the other let him have it back, turning to move back to the door and picking the chair up. He positioned it in front of the exit once more, but before he sat down, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Stiles ignored him, still seething, and jerked slightly when something hit him in the cheek.

Turning back to the beast, he saw his eyebrows raised and his eyes lower. Stiles looked down at the bedspread where a small card sat face down. He picked it up and flipped it over, frowning in confusion when he saw it was a driver’s license. 

It sported the same picture as the Werewolf at the door, along with a California address. Stiles read over all the information, including birth date and other tidbits, eyes lingering on the name, and wondered why he was being trusted with it. 

Derek Hale. 

Well, at least he had a name to write down in his revenge book. Not that he had a revenge book, but maybe he should start one up and hope it turned into a _Death Note_. 

When he looked back up, the Werewolf—Derek, apparently—was at the foot of the bed holding one hand out for his license back. Stiles stared at him, then the license, then looked at him again. Keeping eye contact, he flicked the license across the room towards the bathroom. 

Derek gave him an unimpressed look, but didn’t go and fetch it. He instead just rolled his eyes like Stiles was being difficult, shoved his wallet back into his pocket, and went to sit in his chair again. He crossed his arms and stared at Stiles, which would’ve been fine, if it wasn’t entirely creepy. 

Stiles tried to ignore him as much as possible, looking around for a third time in an attempt to figure out what to do. There was a phone on the table between the two beds, but even from where he sat Stiles could see the line had been cut. The only windows were the one in the bathroom and the one beside the door Derek was camped out in front of. No dice there.

If he could somehow get in touch with his dad, he could send the agents over to kick this wolf’s ass and... well, trade one prison for another, he supposed. At least he had his dad in the other cell. Here he had a cheap motel and a grumpy model Werewolf who seemed averse to using words. It was going to get really old really fast. 

He was still trying to do a mental inventory and determine if there was a way out when there was a loud buzz. His gaze shot back to Derek, who shifted to pull a cell phone from his pocket. That meant there was a working phone in the room, he just had to figure out how to get his hands on it. 

Derek took his eyes off Stiles to look down at his phone. The buzz had only come once, suggesting it was a text, and Derek read it over silently. When he replied, he only hit one letter—probably ‘K’—and waited. The phone didn’t buzz again, likely because he had the message open, but his face twisted again as it had before into that weird constipated expression. It took Stiles a second to realize it was sadness. Or, an attempt to hide sadness, anyway. 

Derek hit another single letter, waited a beat, and then scowled when another text came in, evidently unhappy with whatever was written. Typing back one letter again, he sent it off and put his phone away, rubbing his hand over his mouth. Stiles didn’t hear him cursing, but his expression clearly showed that he was. 

Stiles lay down on the bed, tired of staring over at Derek, and instead focussed on the ceiling. He was a lot calmer than he had been earlier, mostly because Derek wasn’t being aggressive and really, nothing was happening. It wasn’t that he had no survival instincts, but more that he didn’t see the point in panicking and hurting himself further when Derek was clearly the middleman. As long as he could get away from him before he reached his final destination, he’d be fine. 

So he lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he knew it was late when the room began to darken and his stomach started growling. Derek could see in the dark, being a Werewolf and all, but Stiles hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights as the sun set. He just lay there, wondering if it was possible to die of boredom. He started reciting his favourite book in his head in an attempt to keep himself entertained, almost wishing he was back in class doing revisions. Revisions would be infinitely better than this garbage. 

When the hollow ache in his stomach turned into pain, he let out a harsh breath and sat up, Derek not having moved a muscle from his position. Stiles turned to him, only seeing a vague shadow in the darkness, bright red eyes locked on him. 

Alpha, then. Awesome. 

“I need food,” he informed him. “Unless the goal is to kill me. Which I mean, given the level of entertainment available to me right now, might be the plan.” 

Derek didn’t move, suggesting the goal _was_ to kill Stiles with boredom _and_ hunger. Stiles lay back down, grumbling to himself, and then winced when the light flicked on overhead. He scowled and sat back up, seeing Derek striding across the room and opening a small mini fridge in the corner. Stiles had noticed it, but hadn’t given it much thought earlier, assuming it was empty. 

Apparently it wasn’t, because Derek straightened and turned to toss a wrap at him. Stiles caught it instinctively, eying it slightly before looking at Derek once more. He’d pulled a second wrap out, likely for himself, and two Cokes. Stiles saw some cold Starbucks coffee drinks, string-cheese, pudding cups and more sandwiches in the small fridge before Derek closed it, suggesting the food had been bought and hadn’t come with the room. 

Derek picked his license up while he was over there, then moved to the bed to toss one of the cans of Coke in front of Stiles before returning to his perch at the door. 

Stiles didn’t thank him, because he wasn’t going to show any gratitude to a kidnapper. He just set his Coke on the nightstand, unwrapped his wrap, and proceeded to devour it. He drained half the can of Coke once it was open, the carbonation burning his throat, and tore into the rest of his meal. 

When he finished and glanced at Derek, the Werewolf himself was still slowly making his way through the food. Stiles knew Werewolves needed to eat almost twice as much as humans did, so he was likely pacing himself in an attempt not to get hungry again too soon. Then again, he’d waited as long as Stiles had to eat, so he was probably already ravenous.

If Stiles was on the menu, he was in deep shit. 

“So you like, mute or something?” Stiles asked. 

Derek’s chewing paused and he turned to flick Stiles an annoyed look. 

Stiles shrugged helplessly. “What? You haven’t said a word to me since we got here, and you won’t tell me _why_ we’re here. You don’t want to sell me, based on your reaction earlier. You don’t want to kill me, or you would’ve by now. You’re not interested in a ransom, considering the look you gave me before. So... why am I here? What do you want from me?” 

Derek said nothing, he just kept eye contact and took another bite of his wrap. Stiles was so close to screaming he could hardly stand it. 

“Look dude, I am _not_ in the mood for the silent treatment right now. You better start answering my questions or I’ll start screaming rape or something to get attention.” 

Derek rolled his saran wrap into a ball, shrugging his shoulders indifferently before tossing the garbage across the room. It made it into the trash, which kind of pissed Stiles off. Derek slapped his hands together, finished off his Coke, set the empty can on the windowsill and took up his previous position of leaning back with his arms crossed and his legs splayed. 

Stiles watched his easy, unconcerned movements for a moment, and when he inhaled to scream, Derek didn’t react. Stiles just let the breath out without bothering to let any sound escape him, accurately deducing why Derek didn’t care. 

“There’s no one anywhere close to us, is there?” 

Derek looked back over at him, seeming bored, but he didn’t say anything. Shocker on that front.

That meant that when Stiles had been screaming earlier, there had been people around to hear him. It was why Derek had shut him up so fast. But now, if they were in a corner room, and the ones beside and beneath them were empty, Stiles could probably scream for a while before anyone else heard, depending on which rooms were currently occupied. 

“I’m gonna die of boredom,” Stiles informed him.

Derek gave him a clear, “Cry me a river” look, then nodded his head towards the television. Stiles turned back to the old box, honestly not having thought Derek would let him turn it on, which was why he hadn’t tried in the first place. He cast a look at Derek to see if this was a test, then stood up and headed towards the dresser the TV was sitting on. Derek’s eyes tracked him all the way to the television, and then back to the bed once he’d grabbed the remote. 

Stiles turned on the TV and began flipping through the channels. The hotel didn’t seem to have cable, most of the channels he landed on showing static. Some old sitcom was playing on one channel that they had, and another looked like it was in the middle of a porno. Classy. 

Eventually, he landed on the local news, and figured that was better than nothing. He tossed the remote beside him, crossed his legs, and leaned his elbow against one knee so he could rest his cheek against his hand. The other played idly with the shoelaces of his closest shoe. 

The segment he came in on was boring, mostly talking about the funding for the arts being cut at local schools, and the impending teacher’s strike which might hit during exam period. Stiles sure hoped not, he was already barely going to make it to graduation in this one school as it was, he didn’t need the added delay. 

They moved on relatively quickly to sports and the weather, then cycled back around to some protest that had happened earlier in the evening. All boring shit he didn’t care about until the next segment came up and he straightened instantly. Derek tensed at the door.

Because there was a picture of his father on the screen. 

_“Reports are still coming in hours after the discovery of Noah John Stilinski’s body, with the suspects no closer to being found. Police confirmed the homicide of this government official earlier this afternoon after neighbours called the police to report gunfire. Local law enforcement arrived on the scene within minutes of the call, but were unable to save Stilinski’s life. The names of the other two parties found with him have not yet been released, suspected to have been his detail, but there is still a nationwide manhunt for Stilinski’s only son.”_

Stiles felt numb as a picture of himself appeared on the screen. Even in the photo, his eyes looked dead and he seemed just about ready to give up on life, which seemed fitting considering what he’d just heard. 

_“Mieczyslaw Stilinski, also known as Stiles, was last seen leaving school in his ‘96 sky blue Jeep at three this afternoon. His vehicle was found abandoned and running one block south of his home. Police suspect foul pla—”_

The television turned off. Stiles hadn’t seen Derek move, but he was now standing beside the bed, remote aimed at the screen, and a closed off expression on his face. 

Stiles was having a hard time processing what he’d just heard. Because the news was suggesting that his dad was dead. Which was impossible, because his dad _couldn’t_ be dead. Because his dad was a government official. His dad owned a gun. His dad had two agents with him at _all_ times. He was as safe as he could possibly be, there was no way he was dead!

Even as words crashed through his skull, he couldn’t stop hearing the reporter over the sound of his own denials. His dad was dead. 

His dad was _dead_! 

Stiles turned to look up at Derek, who was staring down at him with a closed off expression. Stiles felt liquid spill over the lashes of his left eye but he didn’t reach up to wipe it away. 

“Was it you?” he asked in a low voice. “Was it you who did it?” 

Derek lowered the hand holding the remote, but said nothing. Even now, after what Stiles had just seen on the screen, _still_ he said nothing. 

“Answer me, was it you?!” Stiles shouted. 

When Derek didn’t reply, Stiles surged to his feet on the bed and launched himself at the Werewolf. He seemed to have caught him off guard, which was probably the only reason he managed to slam Derek back against the wall right beside the window. He got his hands around Derek’s throat, squeezing tightly even while his vision crackled and his entire body felt like it was on fire. 

Derek very easily wrenched his hands away from his throat, clenching his wrists tightly and spinning them so that Stiles was the one against the wall. 

“Answer me!” he shouted again, feeling wetness on his cheeks, and his mind screaming even while his body started shutting down. He felt like he was on fire, like something in his chest was growing and struggling to break free.

He heard Derek grunt, hand tightening around Stiles’ left wrist to the point where his bones were grinding together, but Stiles didn’t care. He kept trying to hit Derek, to kick him, to _hurt_ him. 

“Was it you?! Did you do it?! Why?! _Why_?! What do you _want_ with me?! Why did you _do_ this?!” 

Derek pulled him away from the wall and slammed him back against it hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Stiles’ vision went black for half a second, like he’d passed out, but it crackled back into focus a moment later and he could see Derek’s worried expression. 

He still didn’t say anything, but the look on his face was broken, and horrified, and Stiles couldn’t do this, he couldn’t do this. His dad was dead? 

His dad was dead. 

His knees buckled and Derek helped him to the ground, still holding his wrists. Stiles bowed his head and sobbed, even while remembering all the times his father had told him he loved him, and how many of those times he hadn’t said it back. 

He was never going to hear those words from his dad again. He was never going to get the opportunity to get over his anger, and to tell his dad that, despite everything, despite how he acted, and what he said, he loved him.

He _loved_ his dad! It was his _dad_ , and he _loved him_ , and he was _gone_! 

“Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded, punctuated by sobs and wishing he could just pass out. The pain emanating from his wrist was nothing compared to the pain in his chest, and he felt like he was dying. Every breath was like a chore, every beat of his heart taking considerable effort. 

He wanted to wake up from this nightmare, wanted this to just be a horrible, terrible dream. He wanted to find his dad, tell him he was sorry, promise he’d be patient, that he would wait. 

He wanted to tell him how much he loved him. How much his anger had destroyed his ability to express how he truly felt. He was mad, he’d always been mad, but he’d never _not_ loved his dad. He’d always loved him, every day, even when he didn’t say the words back. 

His dad was dead. He’d never get to say them to him. Never get to let him know he _did_ love him.

His dad had died thinking Stiles didn’t love him. 

“Please,” Stiles sobbed, Derek crouched in front of him, still holding his wrists. “Please stop. Just stop. I can’t do this. Please. Please.” 

Derek said nothing, and Stiles just cried. He sat there in a crumpled heap on the ground, crying, and didn’t think he would ever be able to stop. 

* * *

Stiles wasn’t sure what had happened between sobbing and now, but the next time he was conscious again, his head was leaning against the window on the passenger-side of the Camaro and soft music was playing from the radio. He blinked open his eyes, staring out at the empty stretch of road, and squinted into the darkness. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, since he didn’t know what time it was when he’d woken up in the hotel room, but he turned to Derek and found him staring straight ahead while he drove them twenty over the speed limit down the highway. 

They were in the middle of nowhere, as far as Stiles could tell, and the dashboard clock—provided it was accurate—said it was just after three in the morning. Stiles straightened, sniffing once and wiping at his face. It couldn’t have been too long, considering his cheeks were still wet, but they were also surrounded by farmland, which suggested a longer trek than just an hour or so. He could only assume he’d been crying in his sleep. 

When Stiles raked a hand through his hair, his neck twinged and he made a face, then reached back to lightly touch at the back of it. He frowned when he felt small pinpricks of broken skin, then shot a look at Derek. 

He knew Werewolves had abilities, some of them common and others rarer, but he was starting to suspect he hadn’t passed out from exhaustion. He remembered crying on the floor, and he vaguely recalled attacking Derek again, and then nothing. The wounds at the back of his neck suggested he’d used some kind of Alpha ability to knock him out.

He lowered his hands, and stared down at his wrists, where ugly, dark bruises were already forming. Derek had been holding him tightly enough to break his bones, so it wasn’t surprising he’d have left behind some marks. Stiles closed both hands into fists, watching the tendons move beneath his skin. 

“Was it you?” he asked again, because Derek hadn’t answered him. 

He didn’t answer now, either. Stiles turned to him, but the most he got was a look out of the corner of Derek’s eye. That could mean anything, and if it could mean anything, it meant it could also be a yes. 

“Why?” Stiles asked, voice hoarse. “Why would you—he was a _good man_ ,” Stiles insisted, voice breaking. “My dad never did anything to anyone, why would...” He trailed off, feeling the ache in his chest spreading and his wrist burning. He reached down to rub at it, but Derek grabbed his hand before he could manage it, forcing it back into his lap and away from his left wrist. 

“What are you going to do with me?” 

Surprisingly, he didn’t get an answer. Stiles didn’t know why he was bothering to ask questions anymore, his companion’s silence hadn’t broken so far, why would that change now? 

He wished it would. He really needed something else to think about other than the fact that his dad was dead, likely at the hands of the beast sitting beside him. He wished he had some wolfsbane or mountain ash, or anything really that could help him out of this situation. Sure, the Werewolf might have taken it from him even if he did, but it was possible he couldn’t have touched either of those items. 

“You really need to start answering questions,” Stiles informed him, Derek continuing to ignore him, as he’d done all evening. 

A few additional minutes into their drive, he noticed Derek looked a little tense. His eyes were shifting back and forth between the road and the rearview mirror, and every now and then, he would increase the speed of the car ever so slightly. He kept doing it gradually, as if hoping Stiles wouldn’t notice.

But he did. 

He noticed. 

Amber eyes shifted to glance at the speedometer. He was going almost ninety-five miles per hour down the deserted stretch of road, and he suddenly became entirely too aware of how nervous Derek was. Someone was coming after them. They had to be, for Derek to be reacting like this. 

Stiles checked that his seatbelt was securely fastened, because the last thing he needed was to fly through the windshield if something went wrong. 

“Are we in trouble?” He didn’t know why he was asking his kidnapper that, but Derek’s hands tightened around the steering wheel and he said nothing. 

It was an additional tense half hour before Stiles finally saw why Derek looked so nervous. He straightened instantly, having caught it out of the corner of his eye in the side mirror. 

Lights. Red and blue lights. 

There were cops behind them, catching up quickly. That was why Derek was so nervous. Why he was driving so fast. Because someone had finally caught sight of Stiles, and they were coming after his kidnapper. 

Derek let out a grunt beside him, Stiles assuming it was a curse, and turned to look at him. He pressed down harder on the gas, the car shooting forward, but whatever engines the cops had, they were catching up fast. 

Stiles could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the prospect of freedom _right there_! They were coming to save him from this crazy, murderous kidnapper! They were _right there_ and closing fast and all Stiles needed to do was help them along. The second they caught up, they could get him away from Derek, get him somewhere safe. He could call—well, he didn’t know. The front desk of the FBI maybe? Or the CIA? He had no idea what agency the agents who’d been with them worked for. He’d never thought to ask.

He’d never thought he’d have to know. 

But he’d call _someone_ and give them his name and figure out the next steps. They had to be looking for him, after all. He was missing. 

Then again, it was his dad who had the detail, so now that he was dead, maybe Stiles didn’t matter anymore. But why kill his dad and take Stiles if this _wasn’t_ about Stiles? If it was his dad Derek was after, he wouldn’t have killed him. So clearly, this was about Stiles. All the moving and the secrets and the protectiveness. Maybe it had always been about Stiles, and not his dad.

That made no _sense_ , though! He went to school! Somewhere public, alone, with _no_ detail. The agents always stayed with his dad. 

He didn’t _understand_! 

Derek looked extremely displeased, because his car couldn’t go any faster and the cops were catching up. But there was a fork in the road up ahead, and while the likelihood of the police losing them just because Derek had the option of going left or right was slim, he didn’t want to take any chances. He’d spent the whole evening with this psycho who’d murdered his dad, and he wasn’t willing to risk being stuck with him indefinitely. 

Checking his seatbelt was still securely fastened, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Derek’s wasn’t. And there was a fence to their left. 

Sure, he was a Werewolf, so the chances of him dying were slim, but Stiles wasn’t interested in killing him—much as Derek deserved it. Stiles wasn’t a murderer, but he was okay with the beast getting injured after what he’d done to his father. 

So when they neared the fork in the road, the cop cars approaching rapidly, Stiles grit his teeth, then leaned over towards Derek, grabbed the bottom of the wheel, and yanked it towards himself as hard as he could. 

The car turned instantly, Derek’s eyes widening and then he did something extremely interesting. 

He slammed on the brakes as the car barrelled towards a post in the fence, but one hand shot up and shoved Stiles back into his seat so hard it knocked all the wind out of him, keeping him pressed back as hard as he could as the front of the car impacted with the post. 

As predicted, at the speed they were going, Derek flew straight through the windshield, landing a good few feet from the mangled front of the car. Stiles jerked in his seat so hard that the line of the seatbelt burned against his chest, but not half as much as the places where Derek’s arm had been, trying to keep him from shooting out the window like he had. 

He didn’t understand. Why would Derek kill his father, and then injure himself trying to keep Stiles safe? 

_Doesn’t matter,_ he thought while he struggled to breathe. Accidents were not fun, and it took him a few seconds to realize the reason his vision was swimming was because the airbag had deployed and there was white powder floating through the inside of the car. Derek’s had, as well, but evidently it wasn’t enough to save someone not wearing a seatbelt. 

For a few seconds, Stiles wasn’t sure what to do. He was staring out the cracked and destroyed windshield towards the motionless body in front of the car, one headlight flickering and illuminating Derek’s twisted form. 

A few seconds passed, and then a loud grunt of pain met his ears. Derek shifted, struggling to get onto his hands and knees. Stiles could see blood, but he knew Derek would heal in a matter of minutes. He was an Alpha Werewolf. He would heal, and he would be back at Stiles’ side. 

But not before Stiles got to the police. 

Slapping the airbag away from himself and coughing roughly, Stiles undid his seatbelt and hastened over the partition to the driver’s side. His chest burned from the two lines of heat against his chest, two separate attempts to keep him in his seat, but he forced himself to ignore them and struggled to get the driver’s side door open. 

When he did, he practically fell out of the car, wincing and grunting, forcing himself to his feet. He wrapped one arm around his middle, struggling to stop his stomach from roiling over what had just happened. He heard a roar behind him from Derek but didn’t look back, and he stumbled his way to the road. 

The cops were close. They would reach him in seconds. He stopped just short of the middle of the road and waved with one arm, the other still around his middle. 

“Hey! Over here!” 

There were three cars in total. Only one of them was an official cop car, the other two were black sedans. He wondered if they were agents, maybe. Or ghost cars, though they usually also had lights. He didn’t dwell on it as they stopped inches in front of him, one of them passing him to twist to a halt behind him, almost blocking him in. 

He felt so relieved when the officer stepped out of his car that he almost collapsed. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew he was safe now. These were good people, and they were going to help him. And arrest Derek, hopefully. 

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski?” the officer asked, one hand touching his gun. 

“Yes, _yes_!” He stumbled forward a few steps, turning to look towards Derek. 

The Werewolf was snarling viciously, having shifted into his Beta form and still struggling to get to his feet, more than a few limbs clearly not cooperating. His eyes were glowing red and he roared when the officer stepped closer to Stiles, closing the distance. 

“I think he killed my dad,” Stiles insisted, looking back at the officer and motioning Derek. “He hasn’t said anything, but—” 

“Don’t worry, son.” The cop reached him then, putting one hand on his shoulder and offering a small smile. “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of you.” 

People had exited the other vehicles, holding rifles and looking... too normal. They didn’t look like agents _or_ cops. Most of them were in jeans, wearing nondescript jackets and carrying hunting rifles. He saw panic cross Derek’s face, the Werewolf trying to rise, but one of the men aimed and fired. 

Stiles let out a harsh exhale, his heart lodging itself in his throat when Derek slumped immediately and didn’t move. He had half a second to feel his gorge rise before another man fired his own gun. It wasn’t until the second shot that Stiles realized they weren’t firing bullets.

It looked like they were firing tranquillizers. 

That made sense. Couldn’t interrogate someone who was dead, and if all these men were human, well, they stood no chance against a Werewolf. 

Stiles watched them approach Derek cautiously, and fired a third round into him for good measure. Then they got to work quickly, bending down and hoisting the Werewolf up, two of them hurrying to carry him towards the closest sedan while someone else rushed to get the back door open. 

He didn’t know why, but something about this felt wrong. Cops didn’t usually wear these sorts of civvies when on duty, and they certainly didn’t carry hunting rifles full of tranquillizers. Had they known Stiles was kidnapped by a Werewolf? 

And why had Derek looked so _worried_? Even in the car, when he’d noticed they were about to crash, he’d tried to protect Stiles from the impact. Why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he have tried to get away when it became clear he’d lost Stiles, instead of continuing to look towards him and panic over the cop coming closer to him? 

Stiles tensed and turned back to the cop. The man was looking down at what he was doing, and what he was doing—was touching Stiles’ arm, rubbing his thumb gently over the band around his left wrist. 

“Finally. It’s been so long, but we finally...” he trailed off, sounding awed. 

The words sent a chill down his spine. They didn’t sound like the words of an officer who’d been looking for Stiles for the better part of the day.

They sounded like the words of a man who’d been searching for him for years. 

Stiles’ gaze moved to the man’s gun, calculating whether or not he could grab it before the man realized what he was doing. His stomach dropped the second his eyes landed on it. 

It was a Desert Eagle. Even holstered, Stiles knew his guns. His dad used to own guns, and he’d seen enough movies to know all the different types there were. While not _impossible_ for a cop to have a Desert Eagle, standard issue were usually Glocks, with the Glock 22 being the most common for law enforcement. 

If he had a Desert Eagle, chances were good he wasn’t actually law enforcement. 

It wasn’t hard to get sirens put on a regular car. Or to paint it the right colour. Or to get a cop’s uniform. Hell, Stiles had spent enough Halloweens seeing people dressed up as cops, it wasn’t hard to grab an outfit. 

Panic was beginning to rise in his chest and he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t just made a huge mistake. If he hadn’t just handed himself over to the people who were after him, instead of escaping the person who’d kidnapped him.

His wrist burned and the cop let out a startled laugh. “It really is you, isn’t it? Your arm is beginning to heat up, I can feel it burning beneath my fingers.” 

“Let go,” Stiles said quietly. “My wrist—it’s bruised.” He had to get out of this situation. This was bad, so incredibly bad. Maybe he could kick the guy in the balls and make a break for it before the others could rally.

The problem was: open fields. He didn’t have anything to duck behind if they started shooting tranqs at him, the only thing for miles that he could see was the fences on either side of the road. Nothing else.

No trees, no bales of hay, no houses. 

“I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s been _so long_. And we finally _have_ you.” 

That was a bad word. Not _found_. 

_Have_. 

Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment. 

One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding. 

“Shit, you didn’t get him?” the fake cop asked, moving closer to Stiles even as he stumbled back, his vision beginning to darken. 

“I got enough into him. He’ll be out in a second.” 

Stiles stumbled and fell, panic clawing at his insides even as pain burned its way down his arm again. He landed hard on his back, forced himself to breathe, and twisted onto his stomach, trying to crawl away. He knew it was pointless. He knew it was futile. 

But he had to try anyway. 

He only made it to the edge of the road, fingers touching the grass just before the fence when his vision faded entirely and his mind shut down. 

He was getting really tired of passing out. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- Derek is somewhat aggressive towards Stiles when you first meet him. There is a reason for that, you will find it out in chapter two, but he seems to be very cold and uncaring and aggressive at first, so if that's a problem for you, you might want to skim the parts with Derek.  
> \- The Sheriff dies off-screen in this chapter. I did tag Dead Sheriff but he's alive at the beginning, so you see Stiles' reaction to discovering he dies.  
> \- Stiles forces Derek to crash the Camaro in an attempt to injure him; he doesn't understand what's going on, so he does it to protect himself, not because he's an asshole.  
> \- Derek gets tranqued by bad people and Stiles gets drugged (rendered unconscious). This happens at the very end of the chapter, and isn't depicted in detail, it's basically as detailed as the summary. 
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Death Note (c) Tsugumi Ohba  
> \- Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis


	2. Derek Hale

Stiles’ wakeup was a lot more abrupt this go around than it had been the last few. Ammonia burned his nose and he jerked awake, eyes snapping open and hands automatically coming up to slap away the offending smell. He didn’t manage it, but only because his hands didn’t move. 

“Wakey wakey,” a teasing voice said. Stiles blinked his eyes hard, trying to get them to focus. It took a few seconds for the blur in his vision to settle down, but he finally saw himself staring into the scarred face of an older man. He had three identical scars along the right side of his face, likely from a battle he lost with a Werewolf, if Stiles had to take a guess. 

He didn’t recognize him from the cars, but the cop and one of the other guys who’d been carrying Derek were standing a bit behind him. Both of them looked smug and pleased. 

“There now, that’s better.” The man straightened, pulling the smelling salt away from Stiles’ face and inspecting him with eyes that burned with unsated hunger. 

It was not a comforting look, Stiles feeling panic beginning to rise again. Before it could completely overtake him, he jerked in fright at the loud snarl behind him and instinctively turned at the threatening sound at his back. 

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but Derek was behind him, chained to a large iron-barred fence that was bolted into the floor. His fists were clenched and his shirt was ripped in places. Blood stained his jeans and skin, and the small jerking motions he made suggested the lines Stiles could see disappearing out of his range of sight were probably electrical wires connected to the fence. 

“Yes, how very kind of you to help us dispose of your guard dog.” 

Stiles turned back to the man, who’d moved around Stiles, one hand sliding along his shoulders while he looked over at Derek. 

“What?” Stiles asked, his voice sounding rough and pained. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton, an unpleasant aftertaste making it difficult for him to speak. 

Derek was still in his Beta shift and he roared and struggled against his bonds when the older man approached, his hand sliding off Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles noticed his wrists were bleeding where they dug into the metal cuffs, and he wondered what they were made of that allowed them to, not only _injure_ Derek, but contain him. 

“Derek Hale,” the man said, moving closer but still far enough that he wasn’t in range of Derek’s snapping jaws. He was blocking him from Stiles’ line of sight. “Ever the loyal guard dog. They said you were still following him. Fulfilling your sworn duty of keeping him safe. I didn’t believe it, or I would’ve waited before going after his father.” 

The words were like a punch to the gut and Stiles almost gagged. 

What?

 _What_?! 

“Imagine my surprise when school ended and he didn’t come home. When we found the Jeep, we knew you had to be behind it. Such an inconvenience.” 

There was the clang of metal, Derek snarling loudly, then howling when the man motioned for someone out of sight. Stiles could see some parts of Derek twitching and convulsing, and he knew they’d increased the voltage. 

“Stop it.” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, and much too quiet. 

Derek hadn’t been kidnapping him. He hadn’t killed his dad. He hadn’t done anything wrong. 

Derek had been trying to _protect_ him.

And Stiles had almost killed him.

“Stop it!” he said, louder, pulling at his own restraints. They felt like handcuffs, keeping his arms locked behind him. He felt something pull at his left wrist unpleasantly, sticky and painful, and realized he had what felt like duct tape around his left wrist. His legs were bound to the chairlegs of the chair he was sitting in with what also felt like duct tape, as opposed to cuffs or rope. 

The man turned back to Stiles then, eyed him for a moment, then made another motion. He must’ve stopped with the electricity because when he moved back over to Stiles, allowing him a better view of Derek, the Werewolf was practically hanging from his restraints, eyes barely open, chest rising and falling quickly. He was sweating, and sickly pale, and Stiles was pretty sure Werewolves weren’t supposed to look like that. 

“He made our evening much more difficult than it should’ve been,” the man informed him. “I was just returning the favour.” 

“Let him go,” Stiles ordered, sounding much more confident than he felt. 

“Oh we will. Eventually. As soon as she comes to collect him.” 

There was a clang behind them and the man turned. Stiles followed his gaze and saw Derek had tensed. When he raised his head, his eyes looked panicked again.

Afraid. 

“I suppose you didn’t hear, what with all the torture and all happening.” The man sounded much too pleased while he spoke to Derek. “She’s missed you so much since your sister set you free. She’ll be pleased to know you’re still as silent as the grave.” 

Stiles’ lips parted slightly, eyes shifting between the man and Derek, who still looked entirely too afraid. He looked like an abused pet about to be returned to his abusive master. His shoulders had hunched, his eyes had widened, and every inch of him was tensed. 

These men had called someone that Derek did _not_ want to go back to. 

“She’s dead now, yes? Your sister? I heard from the Calaveras that Argent Senior caught up to you two in Arizona while watching the Spark. Made off with her head, didn’t he? Imagine how happy Kate will be to find out she has you back, _and_ doesn’t have to worry about your meddling sister coming to save you again.” 

Derek yanked hard at his bonds, chest rising and falling rapidly. He looked like he was trying to twist his face into something angry, but all he looked was terrified. He was slowly losing his Beta shift, as if the fear coursing through him was overpowering his ability to wolf out. 

“Leave him alone,” Stiles insisted, trying to push anger into his tone. He didn’t _want_ attention back on him, but he couldn’t keep looking at Derek. He felt like he was going to throw up, seeing what these men had done to him.

Knowing that he himself had _helped_ them by crashing the car, when everything the asshole beside him said suggested that Derek had been trying to protect him. 

Why hadn’t he just _said_ so?! 

But then... 

Stiles’ gaze shot back to Derek as the man turned to focus on Stiles once more, seeming amused. 

The man had commented on Derek still being ‘silent as the grave.’ That meant Derek really _was_ mute. 

That meant all the questions Stiles had asked... Derek hadn’t been ignoring him or avoiding answering him.

Derek _couldn’t_ answer him. 

It was why he’d thrown his license at him. Because he couldn’t tell Stiles his name, but obviously wanted him to know it. It was why he hadn’t said any words of comfort when Stiles had broken down about his father, why he hadn’t denied being the one to kill him, why he hadn’t _explained_ anything. 

Because he couldn’t speak. 

“I didn’t forget you, don’t worry.” The man patted his shoulder hard and Stiles flinched unintentionally. His hand remained on him while he moved back around in front of him, crouching down and smiling brightly. “Mieczyslaw. Or, Stiles, isn’t it? That’s what you prefer to be called?” 

“Did you kill my dad?” he asked through gritted teeth, feeling moisture welling in his eyes.

“An unfortunate turn of events, but he was too stubborn for his own good. Fourteen years we’ve been looking for you, Stiles. Fourteen. He knew where you were, all he had to do was tell me. He refused. He didn’t _have_ to die, he just had to give you up.” 

The man sighed, as if he were truly sorry for what he’d done, and that just made things a million times worse, because Stiles knew he wasn’t. He felt liquid sliding down his left cheek and the man, in mock concern, reached out one hand to press it against his cheek, using his thumb to smooth the tear away tenderly. 

It took everything in him not to twist his head and bite the guy’s hand. He only managed not to because he worried he’d vomit if he opened his mouth and he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop. 

“My name is Deucalion, and I have been searching for you for _so_ long, Stiles.” His thumb was still brushing lightly, back and forth, across his cheek. 

Derek did something behind him, metal clanging again. Deucalion’s gaze shifted that way, but he said nothing, focussing back on Stiles a moment later. 

“I’m looking forward to getting acquainted, but perhaps after your guard dog has been returned to his proper master. He should’ve known better than to run away from home, she was so happy to hear he’d been found, but is probably going to have to punish him for his disobedience.” 

Vomit or not, Stiles didn’t care. He hoped he _did_ vomit, right into this guy’s fucking _face_! 

He twisted his head and bit down hard into the webbing between the man’s thumb and index finger, biting hard enough to taste blood. There was a shout, a clatter, and Stiles was sure he’d rip right through the guy’s skin when he felt a sharp crack against his face.

It was _just_ enough to make his jaw loosen and Deucalion snatched his hand back, moving away from Stiles quickly and cradling his hand to his chest while the other two men converged on him, as if trying to form a barrier between Stiles’ tied up form in the chair and their evident leader. 

Deucalion looked livid, eyes burning as he stared at Stiles. Stiles just stared back, his cheek smarting, and licked his lips pointedly, tasting blood on them. 

“You made a mistake, boy. It didn’t have to be this way.” 

“What do you want us to do with him?” the fake cop asked. 

“For now, nothing,” Deucalion said coldly. “The plan is to make him ours. I was going to do it kindly, but if he’s going to misbehave, I guess we’ll have to break him first. Once he’s broken, we’ll put him back together however we see fit.” His eyes shifted to Derek then. “Let him starve down here with his dog until Kate arrives. We’ll see how cooperative he is after a few days without food or water.” 

Worth it. Totally fucking _worth_ it. 

They thought they could break him? Hilarious. Stiles wasn’t even a real person anymore, they couldn’t break what was already broken. They could spend their whole lives trying, but they wouldn’t succeed. 

He supposed Deucalion would find that out the hard way. 

The three of them left, along with a woman Stiles hadn’t seen originally. She must’ve been the one controlling the voltage of the fence out of sight. She was the last to leave, and she turned to give him a calculating look over her shoulder before glancing up at Derek briefly and shutting the door firmly behind herself. He heard a lock slide into place, and then the light turned off. 

It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust, but it was relatively bright in the room because of the light filtering in from the various windows. They were likely in some kind of basement, but the sun was beginning to rise because it wasn’t as dark as he thought it’d be. 

For a few seconds, there was silence barring Derek’s ragged breathing behind him and the faint sound of buzzing electricity. Stiles didn’t move, trying to calm himself down, because everything was so fucked up, and he didn’t know what was going on, and was he about to get someone who’d been trying to protect him killed?

Like he’d gotten his father killed? 

Grief was wholly unwelcome in light of what was coming, and the danger they were in, so as much as Stiles wanted to let it consume him, he buried it deep to be dealt with later, deciding he would cry until he couldn’t breathe anymore once they were out of this mess he’d gotten them into. 

Letting out a slow breath, he turned in the chair to look over at Derek. He was still mostly hanging from his restraints, like he lacked the strength to stand, and his red eyes were locked on Stiles. 

He looked defeated, and terrified. Not only for himself, but for Stiles, too. 

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Stiles asked him quietly, ignoring the crick in his neck at having to twist so fully towards him. “Why didn’t you tell me that you didn’t kill my dad? That you were trying to keep me safe? That you were _protecting_ me?” 

Derek said nothing—unsurprising, now that Stiles knew he couldn’t speak—but his look said it all. 

“You know what I mean,” Stiles insisted. “You could’ve written it down, or pantomimed it, or-or typed it out on your phone and shown it to me. You didn’t have to just sit there all angry-looking and silent. I wouldn’t have...” Stiles’ gaze lowered to Derek’s legs. They looked okay now, but he had to wonder just how badly he’d been injured when he’d flown through the windshield. How much he’d hurt himself trying to stand to protect Stiles, even while Stiles ran into the waiting arms of people trying to hurt him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. And if this was really the end for both of them, if Derek was about to be handed back to some evil bitch who would make him suffer, well—Stiles wanted to at least have the opportunity to apologize. Even if the words seemed wholly inadequate for what he’d just cost him. 

Derek gritted his teeth and managed to get his legs to cooperate, standing on his feet instead of dangling like he was. It seemed to take a considerable effort, blood flowing freely from his wrists. He gave Stiles a hard look that clearly said, “We’re not done yet.” 

“Right,” Stiles agreed, turning to look around himself. He twisted this way and that to see what there was in the basement, but he didn’t see anything that would be useful. When he twisted the other way, he caught sight of the small table with a battery on it, clearly what was being used to electrify the fence. 

He didn’t see anything that would help him out of the cuffs. His legs were easy, that was just tape, but the cuffs... 

It hurt to crane his neck that far back, and pull his arms up so high, but he managed to do it in a way that allowed him to look at the cuffs. They’d put them on him so that the keyhole was facing his elbow, which meant he couldn’t pick them even if he found something to pick them _with_. They obviously trusted that he was smart enough to find his way out of them. He could try breaking the chair, but that might also break his arms if he landed wrong, and he didn’t know if it would even work. 

Letting out an annoyed breath, he looked around again, and hoped Derek was thinking behind him, as well. He was sure the Werewolf was, though his plan seemed to involve breaking free more than anything because metal kept clanging like he was struggling against his bonds. 

“That isn’t going to work, or it would’ve by now,” Stiles insisted, getting a little frustrated with the constant noise. Derek paused for a moment, then seemed not to care about what he had to say, because he started that up again. 

It only occurred to Stiles that he was trying to get his attention when he realized it was rhythmic. It wasn’t morse code or anything, but it was so specifically constant that he felt stupid for not realizing that was what Derek was doing. 

He turned back to look at him, and Derek’s eyes shot to the window. Stiles did, as well, seeing it was getting lighter out. 

“Yeah, I don’t think either of us can make it over there right now.” 

Derek gave him an annoyed look, rolled his eyes, then jerked his head more emphatically towards the window. Stiles didn’t understand, and then he heard a car door slam. His blood ran cold, and he wondered if that meant the people here for Derek had arrived. It had been particularly fast, considering Deucalion had suggested Stiles wouldn’t be fed until Derek had been taken care of. It hadn’t even been a full half hour, did they think Stiles needed to eat every ten minutes? 

“Is someone coming?” Stiles asked, feeling his throat run dry. 

Derek didn’t acknowledge the question, head tilted and listening. Stiles did, as well, and heard an engine turn over and dirt kick up. He relaxed, not even having realized he’d tensed. It wasn’t someone coming, it was someone going. 

They obviously hadn’t been left alone, but there were less people in the house right now, and that meant it would be easier to escape. This was their window of opportunity, and Stiles wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

Though he still didn’t have a plan on how to get out of the cuffs keeping him tied to the chair, or how Derek was going to pull free from his restraints. He wondered if he could just... pull at his wrists and hope the metal distorted enough to snap in the middle. Probably not, and he’d rip his wrists open, but he didn’t know what else to do. 

He and Derek continued their escape attempts for almost an hour. Stiles even ended up trying to knock the chair over, because he was completely out of ideas, but he couldn’t manage to make it move. They’d glued the chair to the floor, probably assuming he’d try an escape attempt like that. They really hadn’t left anything up to chance. 

Stiles was just about ready to give up when Derek clanged to get his attention again. He turned to him, and saw what he could only describe as apprehension on the Werewolf’s face. He’d completely lost his Beta shift over the course of the hour, and his green eyes were shifting back and forth between Stiles’ bound wrists and his face. 

“What?” Stiles asked. “I’m working on it.” 

Derek seemed to hesitate, pressed his lips into a hard line, then exhaled slowly. When he inhaled, his expression shifted into something like resolution, locked eyes with Stiles, and then curled the fingers of his left hand as low as he could, tapping at his cuff. Stiles frowned, not understanding. Derek gave him a look and did it again, tapping more insistently. 

Stiles did the same thing, and his fingers brushed the duct tape around his left wrist. 

Overtop the band. 

“The tape?” he asked with a frown. “You want me to take off the tape?” 

Derek didn’t nod, but the eye roll was as obvious a ‘yes’ as he was going to get. 

Stiles didn’t know what good taking the tape off his wrist was going to do, but it wasn’t like he had any brighter ideas, so he obediently shifted in his seat, pushing himself back as much as he could against the chairback so he could move his arms a bit more easily. It was hard to look over his shoulder while he worked, so he stared right at the door in front of him while he struggled to find the edge of the tape. 

It was slow-going, and extremely difficult, because they’d cut it off in the most awkward area for Stiles to reach it comfortably. It took him two tries to pull up a corner, and almost five minutes to get enough of it up that he could pull it off.

He didn’t know how many times they’d wrapped the tape around his wrist, but it seemed to take an _eternity_ to take it off. It kept sticking on itself and his fingers, and sometimes it would stick back down and make him have to struggle to get it off again. He knew he’d finally reached the end when hair ripped free with the tape, making him curse, but he didn’t worry about it and kept going. 

Finally, _finally_ , he managed to rip it free. It stuck to his fingers, no matter how vigorously he shook out his hand, and he had to contort himself painfully to manage to stick it to the chair and pull his hand free, finally ridding himself of the damn thing. 

“Well, at least that passed the time,” he muttered, turning to look over his shoulder at Derek. He frowned when he saw him breathing deeply, eyes closed and fists clenched. His muscles would tense and relax, tense and relax, and it took him a second to realize that _Derek was still being electrocuted_. 

He twisted the other way to look at the battery, and sure enough, it was still on. Definitely a lower voltage than earlier, when Derek had been convulsing, but it was still going, like constant torture while he stayed stuck there against the fence. 

When there was a small clang, he twisted back the other way to look at Derek. His eyes were open again, looking down at Stiles’ free wrist. He locked gazes with him once more when Stiles had turned back to him, and then let out a slow breath. 

Using his left hand again, he tilted his wrist back and nodded towards it with his chin, eyes on Stiles. 

It took a few seconds for him to get it. 

“The inside of my left wrist.” 

Derek didn’t nod, but his raised eyebrows showed he was impressed with how quickly he’d understood. He brought his ring and middles fingers down towards his palm, and began to rub in a clockwise circle against his palm, staring at Stiles intently. 

“You want me to—” He cut off abruptly, staring at Derek in disbelief. 

For his whole life, whenever Stiles touched his left wrist, his dad freaked and told him to stop. Whenever he saw Stiles even scratch it, he snapped at him. And back in the hotel, and even in the car, Derek had grabbed at his right hand to stop it from touching his left wrist. 

Stiles had never given it much thought before. He figured it was just his dad trying to stop him from irritating his wrist because of the spell. He’d thought Derek was just following along with what his dad wanted. 

The fake cop had said he could feel it burning beneath his palm when he’d touched Stiles’ wrist and pain had flared up his arm. And they’d covered it with duct tape, as if not wanting him to touch it. As if needing to make _sure_ he didn’t touch it. 

He might not know what the spell was, and why the band was there, but he suddenly understood what Derek was trying to tell him. The band could be removed.

And Stiles was the only one who could do it. 

“Rub the inside of my left wrist clockwise to unlock the spell,” he said. 

Derek let out a slow breath, as if relieved Stiles understood. Why he didn’t just fucking nod or shake his head, Stiles didn’t know, but he could interpret enough based on Derek’s expressions and reactions. Still, would be nice if Derek made it a _little_ easier for him. They were kind of in a life or death situation here. 

“Does it have to be my left hand? Or can I do it with my right?” 

Derek alternated opening and closing both hands for a few seconds and Stiles understood it to mean he could use either hand. That was good, it’d be easier to do that with his right hand. 

He had no idea what the spell _was_ , but Derek obviously did, and if he was telling him to remove it, that meant it would help them escape. Stiles was all for escaping, so he faced forward again, shifted in the chair, and then closed his eyes while he concentrated. 

Derek went silent and still behind him as Stiles struggled to shift his hands into a more comfortable position. He wasn’t sure where, exactly, he was meant to be rubbing at the inside of his wrist, but he figured he’d start with the middle and go from there. 

It was a far cry from rubbing his wrists that his dad used to yell at him about, but he supposed his dad was just more concerned with him not touching it than anything else. If Stiles accidentally rubbed at the inside of his wrist _just right_ , it would unlock the spell and—presumably do something. He had no idea what, but something. 

He finally got his hands to cooperate, eyes still closed and focussed on the task at hand. He began to rub slow circles against the inside of his wrist, making sure to go clockwise. He started in the middle, figured he’d go about five or six rotations in before moving along. 

It felt like nothing was happening, so he started to try again in another spot, but Derek clanged behind him. He didn’t turn, but took that to mean he had to keep going, so he obediently continued what he was doing. 

“This is so stupid,” Stiles muttered while he rubbed circles into the inside of his wrist. “I don’t feel anything. I swear to God, if you’re just fucking with me, I’m gonna be—” 

It felt like something had just exploded out of Stiles’ chest, the resounding boom loud enough to make his ears ring and the force of it so strong that the chair practically disintegrated beneath him and he crashed to the ground. 

His entire body felt like it was on fire, his vision crackled white, and he was finding it hard to breathe. Panic began to rise in his chest as consciousness began to slip away but then suddenly the wave of power that had escaped him seemed to get sucked right back into him and he jerked violently, falling to his hands and knees. 

Air invaded his lungs and his vision snapped back into focus, Stiles struggling to breathe while he stared down at his hands on the hard concrete floor. His wrists were both bare, and it took him a few seconds to remember that he’d been wearing handcuffs a moment ago. 

They were no longer there. 

Something smelled like it was burning, and when the heat began to be too much for him, he looked down and realized _he_ was the one burning. 

“Shit, fuck!” He hastily got to his knees and began to urgently pat down at the patches of flames on his shirt and pants. He flailed like an idiot trying to get to the ones on his back, but eventually managed to make sure everything was put out properly. 

He let his ass fall back onto his feet, breathing hard and staring down at his hands. The band around his left wrist was gone, but his hands looked... weird. White-hot lines were moving beneath his skin, like small currents of electricity. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he also knew he had like, two seconds before the people upstairs burst through the door and found him sitting there staring at his hands.

Except the seconds ticked by, and no one came. It was like the shockwave he’d exploded out had frozen time. 

Or knocked everyone out. 

When he glanced around, he saw that the foundation of the basement was cracked and charred, suggesting he’d definitely knocked a few people out. 

His heart stuttered in his chest when he remembered there was something _other_ than a wall in the basement with him. Something other than a chair that he’d disintegrated and metal cuffs that he’d melted. 

Stiles hastily whipped around, eyes urgently seeking out Derek. 

The iron-barred fence was lying flat on the ground with Derek still attached to it, unmoving. He didn’t look like a burned, charred mess, but he also didn’t look like he was breathing. 

“Derek!” Stiles scrambled to his feet and rushed towards the fence. He stopped himself at the last second when he found the battery lying on the ground a foot away from him, still on and still connected to the fence. He hastily bent to turn it off and ripped the wires from the bars, then clambered onto it and bent down beside Derek.

His chest was slowly rising and falling, so he wasn’t dead, thank God. 

“Derek? Derek, can you hear me? Hey!” Stiles grabbed Derek’s face with both hands, patting his right cheek lightly. He flinched when he saw electricity passing from his hand to Derek’s skin and hastily ripped them away. Derek had literally just been electrocuted, Stiles didn’t want to add to that with whatever the fuck was going on with his hands right now. 

“Derek!” He grabbed the front of his ruined, bloody shirt instead and began shaking him as hard as he could. “Derek, wake up, _wake up_!” 

He managed to pull him clear off the ground and slammed him back down. Derek’s eyes snapped open and he instantly headbutted Stiles.

With a shout, Stiles fell back onto his ass, one hand coming up to slap against his forehead. “Ow! What the _fuck_!” 

Derek was breathing hard, looking around for danger, then seemed to realize that it was only Stiles, who was seeing stars from how hard Derek had hit him. Jesus, he was going to have a fucking goose egg in the middle of his damn forehead. 

“Shit,” Stiles grumbled, rubbing at it while twisting to get back onto his knees, moving back up to Derek’s side. “Are you okay?” 

Derek’s gaze rose to the cuffs and he tugged at them. They weren’t handcuffs like Stiles had been wearing, but heavy duty iron cuffs that, up close, Stiles recognized as being the ones designed specifically for Werewolves. He’d seen them before in movies, since Werewolves could rip through almost everything else. He hadn’t realized that was what they were earlier, but he should’ve assumed considering Derek hadn’t been able to break free.

He just knew the sale of them was heavily regulated, specifically because it was intended _only_ for police and military, not for regular civilians who could keep Werewolf pets. 

“We gotta get these off,” Stiles muttered, reaching for them. He jerked his hands back when tendrils of light connected from his hands to the cuffs and Derek jerked. “Shit, sorry! Sorry, I don’t... I have no idea what’s going on.” Stiles shook out his hands, as if to rid them of the tendrils, but that was the wrong thing to do because it just sent sparks of them flying every which way and Derek’s shirtsleeve caught on fire. 

“Fuck, _fuck_!” Stiles shouted, and immediately began to hastily pat at it with his hand, knowing he was probably shocking Derek but figuring he’d appreciate that more than having his arm burned to a crisp. “Why did you think this was a good idea? This could’ve _killed_ you!” Stiles insisted. 

Derek just gave him a look that clearly said he hadn’t been worried about himself. Evidently, Derek’s top priority was Stiles’ safety, his own was of little consequence. Something made explicitly clear when he tugged at one wrist to get Stiles’ attention since he was still making sure the sleeve fire had gone out, and then jerked his chin insistently towards the window. 

“If that’s Derek code to leave you behind and save my own skin, then fuck you,” Stiles snapped, still trying to figure out how to free Derek without _touching_ him. 

Derek snarled, eyes going red and fangs growing. He snapped his teeth in Stiles’ face, then jerked his chin at the window again. A clear demand for him to leave. 

“And _I_ said, fuck you,” Stiles repeated. “It’s my fault we got into this mess, so shut up and let me think.” 

He didn’t know if the type of metal mattered when it came to melting it, like he had with his handcuffs, but he’d also completely disintegrated a chair so it was entirely possible he could melt the iron bars. He didn’t want to touch the cuffs, just in case he fucking exploded Derek’s hand or something, but maybe the bars... 

Derek snarled and snapped his teeth, tugging hard at the cuffs. His eyes were flashing red and he was going into his Beta shift. His legs weren’t tied down, so he used them to shift and plant one foot on Stiles’ chest, kicking him back and away from him, towards the window. 

Stiles was sure he didn’t _mean_ to throw him back into the cracked wall, but he hit it with a loud thud, knocking the air from his lungs, and he was getting really tired of passing out _and_ losing his breath. This was turning into a pattern he didn’t like. 

“What the hell!” Stiles insisted angrily, rubbing at his chest with one hand while getting to his feet, scowling at Derek. “What are you—”

He froze, because Derek’s eyes were on the door, and he looked murderous. A second later, Stiles could hear someone stumbling down the stairs. 

Looking around wildly, Stiles’ gaze fell onto the large battery and he hastily bent down to grab it, readying himself to throw it at whoever walked in’s head. The door opened and he hurled it with a loud shout. 

The woman who’d previously been using it ducked out of the way instantly, so that was a pointless endeavour, but instead of coming at him or aiming a gun or anything like that, she just stood in the doorway and held both hands up. 

“Easy, _easy_ ,” she insisted urgently. “It’s okay, I’m here to help.” 

“Here to help kill Derek?” Stiles demanded, moving quickly to stand in front of him and raising his fists. He didn’t know what raising his fists would do, but it made him feel better. “Over my dead body!” 

“I don’t want to hurt Derek. We’re very short on time if we’re going to get you out of here.” She reached up and pulled down the collar of her shirt. 

Stiles didn’t understand what he was meant to be looking at, it just looked like a _Harry Potter_ lightning scar tattoo just below her right collarbone. He didn’t move or react, which had her glance nervously over her shoulder before turning back to Stiles. 

“Let him see me.”

“And give your buddies a clear shot at him? No way!” Stiles countered, ignoring Derek’s angry snarls and snapping teeth behind him. He was struggling hard to get free, but the cuffs were holding fast. 

“I’m not trying to hurt him, he will _understand_!” she insisted, taking a step forward. “Just let him see me!” 

Stiles hesitated, but it didn’t sound like there was anyone behind her. She looked nervous and scared, still tugging insistently at the collar of her shirt, as if the tattoo was supposed to mean something. He finally relented, shifting aside slightly, but not enough that he couldn’t fly back in front of him if someone appeared with a gun. 

The second Derek got a good look at her, the snarls stopped and Stiles turned to see his face shifting back to human. Derek’s eyes widened and he tugged insistently on his cuffs. 

“That’s the idea,” the woman said, letting her hand drop and rushing forward. Stiles went to stop her, but Derek banged one foot against the metal bars and he looked back at him. Derek was staring right at him, eyebrows raised in a clear, “She’s going to help” sort of way. 

Stiles moved aside as the woman pulled her keys out of her pocket and quickly got to work undoing the cuffs. Derek snarled when the first one came free and Stiles winced at the raw, bloody state of his wrist. The woman worked on getting the second one undone while Derek clenched and unclenched his fist. 

“Alan knows you’re here,” she said to Derek once the second wrist was free. “He’s getting a group together to storm the place. I’d suggest letting him know it’s not needed.” She stood then, holding a hand out to Derek to help him up.

He didn’t take it, getting to his feet on his own and wincing. He almost stumbled but Stiles grabbed at him hastily before he hit the ground. Thankfully, his hands seemed under control again, because it didn’t look like he was electrocuting him anymore. He pulled one of Derek’s arms over his shoulder to help support him—despite the guy weighing a fucking ton, Jesus—and turned back to the woman. 

“There’s a car outside,” she said, holding the keys out to Stiles. “Take it as far as you can, then switch out. Go to Beacon Hills, and don’t stop if you can help it. People are looking for you, but don’t trust anyone that he doesn’t. He’s going to protect you with his life, try not to make this harder for him.” 

Stiles cast a glance at Derek, but the Werewolf was looking at the woman, pointedly ignoring the words she’d just said. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, grabbing the keys from her outstretched hand. “What about you?” 

Her eyes shifted to Derek and she let out a slow breath. “Make it look good. Try not to kill me.” 

Stiles jumped when Derek’s hand shot up and smacked her so hard across the face that she slammed into the far wall and crumpled in a heap on the ground. 

“Shit!” Stiles insisted, looking up at Derek, startled. He didn’t look at all sorry, and Stiles figured it was payback for the electrocution, even though it was obvious she’d been doing it to keep up appearances. If she was letting them go, and Derek trusted her enough to approach him while he was chained to a fence, obviously there was a reason for that. 

Knowing they didn’t have time to dwell on it right now, Stiles at least made sure he could see the woman breathing, and then started tugging Derek towards the exit. He still had one of Derek’s arms over his shoulders, gripping his hand tightly to keep it in place without touching his aggravated wrist, and the other was wrapped around Derek’s waist, hand closed and gripping the keys tightly in it. 

Derek did the best he could trying to help, but it was obvious he wasn’t doing well. Stiles didn’t think Werewolves should be that pale, and it hadn’t escaped his notice that his wrists were bleeding steadily onto his hand, meaning the wounds weren’t healing. That didn’t bode well.

They made it through the door and up the stairs, Stiles looking around at the damage. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but the first floor looked a lot like the basement. The walls were cracked and charred, some paint peeling and burnt in some areas. A lot of the furniture was smoking or still on fire, and there were two men passed out in two separate areas of the first floor.

No one looked like they were dead, and Stiles could only assume whatever had happened, whatever he’d _done_ , that he’d somehow subconsciously decided he didn’t want anyone to die. It made sense, considering Derek had been right behind him, and he hadn’t wanted to hurt him. 

When they made it through the front door, Derek stumbled and Stiles almost fell with him. He managed to rearrange his grip, his hand slipping on Derek’s skin from the blood sliding down from his wrist, but he tightened his hold and tugged him straight again. 

The car in question looked like one of the two black sedans from the night before, but all the windows were broken. The windshield looked to still be mostly intact with horrible cracks running through it, but the two windows on the passenger side were completely broken. 

“All right, come on,” Stiles said, helping Derek quickly down the porch steps and towards the vehicle.

He didn’t know where they were, but somewhere still in farm country. There were a few trees around them, but he could see farmland stretching out and assumed the trees were some kind of hedge to keep the wind out. He’d read about that being necessary in flatland areas, so he was going to assume that was the reason. 

Getting the passenger side door open was a challenge, but he finally managed it. There was glass all over the seat from the broken window, but when he tried to lean in and brush it off, Derek just grunted and started to pull back from Stiles so he could climb in. 

He figured Derek was assuming the jeans he wore would keep the glass from hurting him and they were kind of short on time, since they didn’t know when the others were coming back. The sun had already risen by now, illuminating the area around them, and it was entirely likely they were going to show up any minute. 

Stiles waited for Derek to be settled, the Werewolf wincing, then slammed the door and hurried around the car. He got behind the wheel, only a few pieces of glass on this side since the window hadn’t fully broken. When he slammed the door shut, apparently that was a mistake because the window cracked further and then shattered outward. 

Derek instantly leaned over and grabbed at Stiles, yanking his head down into his lap, as if worried he’d get glass in his face. Thankfully the window seemed to mostly shatter outwards and he only felt a few pieces hit his skin, but Derek didn’t let him go for a good, long while. 

“Dude? We gotta go.” Stiles patted at whatever part of Derek’s leg he could reach and, reluctantly, Derek let him sit up. Stiles wondered if maybe he’d mistaken the action for a gunshot. 

Stiles got the car started, relieved it actually _worked_ , and then turned them around and headed for the end of the drive, past the line of trees. The road wasn’t too far up, and he stopped at the end of the drive to turn to Derek, motioning both ways. 

Derek looked back and forth, frowning, then pointed to the left. 

“Left it is,” Stiles said, and turned in that direction to get them the fuck out of there. 

* * *

They didn’t drive in that car for long. Broken windows were kind of noticeable while driving at breakneck speed, and Stiles didn’t want any more cops stopping them. He wasn’t sure he’d ever trust a cop was _actually_ a cop ever again. 

When they found a semi-deserted gas station, Derek led them around the back to check out the cars that likely belonged to the people working inside, and then broke into one of them. He got behind the wheel this time, trying to hot-wire it, and looking more and more frustrated when it didn’t work. 

Stiles slapped his hands away, then leaned over and did it for him. Derek’s eyebrows rose when the car started, giving Stiles a look.

“What? Eidetic memory, I know these things.” Stiles slammed his door shut and motioned for Derek to get driving before they got caught. 

They were back on the road in seconds, and now that Stiles didn’t have the distraction of driving while attempting to look through a broken windshield, his brain was going a mile a minute. He didn’t understand what was going on, and what he’d done, and why these people were after him. He stared down at his hands, but the tendrils of light that had been dancing beneath his skin earlier were gone. 

It was while he was staring down that a tear landed on his skin and he realized he was crying. Because his dad was dead, and someone had murdered him because he wouldn’t tell them where Stiles was, and this was all his fault. Everything was his fault. The moving, the constant fighting, his father’s death, Derek’s capture, his torture, everything. It was all his fault. 

He didn’t even realize he was hyperventilating until Derek slammed on the brakes, having pulled off onto the side of the road. He reached over to push Stiles’ chair back, then grabbed him by the back of the neck and forced his head down between his knees. 

It didn’t really help, but the weight of someone’s hand on his neck was familiar and comforting and Stiles struggled to close his eyes and breathe, tears still sliding down his face. He reached out with one hand to grip at Derek’s thigh, and the Werewolf’s free hand closed around it, squeezing tightly. 

Stiles remembered Derek’s reaction back in the hotel. When Stiles had first mentioned his dad, and when the news had been reporting on his death. He’d originally thought Derek looked constipated, but had realized the second time that he looked sad and was trying to hide that fact. 

Stiles’ dad meant something to Derek, and he was just as upset by his passing as Stiles was. Maybe not _as_ upset, considering, but it had still hurt him just as much. 

He didn’t know how long they were sitting there on the side of the road, but he knew they had to keep moving. He tried to rein in all his pain and grief, and it wasn’t until he realized just how upset he was that it occurred to him...

His wrist wasn’t burning. 

It was enough to startle him into an upright position, Derek’s hand still on his neck. He stared down at his left wrist, finding it a little startling not to see the dark band around it after so many years, but it didn’t hurt. 

“I’m magic, aren’t I?” Stiles asked quietly. 

Derek didn’t answer—verbally, or otherwise—and Stiles turned to look at him. Derek was staring back, but he didn’t give any hints of an answer. Not that Stiles needed one after what had happened at the house. 

“So that thing, around my wrist, it was to, what, stop my magic from coming out?” 

Derek just kept staring at him, his eyes inspecting every inch of his face. He seemed to be satisfied with what he saw because he retreated his hand and shifted the car back into drive, getting them back on the road. Stiles couldn’t imagine how frustrating being mute must be, and he felt bad for constantly asking questions, but he couldn’t help it. He needed answers, this was all driving him a little crazy. 

He turned on the radio after a short time, the two of them listening to it while Stiles stared out his window. They were moving back into more frequently travelled areas, out of whatever farmland they’d been in, and his mind wandered towards the woman’s words. 

Beacon Hills. Home. Or, what home used to be, he supposed. 

That was in California, and while possible they weren’t in Virginia anymore, they were still on the complete opposite side of the country. He wasn’t sure how long it was going to take, but a while, at least. Days, maybe weeks. Unless they flew, but he doubted flying was a good idea considering... 

Well, considering. 

He looked back down at his hands again, but they were normal. He didn’t know what he’d done earlier to make them _not_ normal, but it was probably a good thing they were normal right now. He didn’t want to blow up the car or anything. 

They only stopped once more on the side of the road so they could both take a leak, but after that it was just driving. Stiles didn’t know how many hours they went or how many towns they passed through, but aside from gas, they didn’t stop.

It was probably why he was starting to feel cranky, because the last thing he’d had to eat was the wrap in the hotel. He didn’t know how much money Derek had, but he worried about gas because that was a bit more important right now. 

So despite the hunger eating a literal hole in his stomach, he said nothing and just kept staring out the window. 

Eventually, while they were on the highway, Derek tapped his leg to get his attention and Stiles turned to look at him. Derek nodded towards a sign for a turnoff coming up and he turned to look at it. 

“McDonalds?” he asked Derek, looking back at him. 

Derek glanced at him, shrugged, and gave him a, “You okay with that?” sort of look. 

“Sure.” 

When the exit came up, Derek took it and they drove into regular traffic for a few minutes before reaching the McDonalds. Derek went to the drive-thru and they both stared at the menu while they waited. Stiles knew what he wanted, but he didn’t know how much money Derek had. 

“Is this going to be okay? Finance-wise, I mean.” 

The look he got for that suggested Derek had money. All right then. 

“Don’t get sassy with me, I’m the one doing the talking for the food, if you want a meal, you better play nice.”

He got an eyeroll in response, but Derek just leaned out through his window and tapped at the meal he wanted. Stiles grunted his acknowledgement and they waited for their turn at the box. 

When they pulled up, Stiles had to lean over Derek to speak into it. It occurred to him that Derek still had some dried blood all over him from the accident and the torture, but if the teller asked, he’d just say Derek was an actor coming off a job or something. People were idiots, they believed everything. 

_“Hi, welcome to McDonalds, what can I get for you?”_ a voice asked, sounding dead inside. 

“Yeah, hi, can we get uh, one number three combo with a Coke to drink, super-sized. And a number seven combo, also super-sized, with uh...” he looked at Derek, who shrugged. “Another Coke. And can we also get a large Oreo McFlurry with added hot fudge sauce?” 

Derek hit Stiles in the chest for that order.

“What?” Stiles demanded, looking at him. “I want ice cream.” 

Derek gave him a look and motioned himself before giving Stiles a, “What the fuck, dude?” look. 

“Uh, make that two. Extra Oreo and extra hot fudge.” 

The girl repeated the order, even though Stiles could see it on the small screen beside the box, and it looked to be right. She called them up to the first window to pay, Derek handing over his card. The girl didn’t say anything about his wretched appearance and just held out the card machine for him to tap his card. 

When they went to the next window for the food, they had to wait, considering it was still being put together, and Stiles watched Derek put his card away and lift his hips to get it back into his pocket. 

“They took your phone, but not your wallet? At least you were smart enough to take both of mine when you kidnapped me.” 

Derek turned to raise his eyebrows at him. Stiles waved his hand at him.

“I know, I know, not kidnapping, protection. But seriously, you couldn’t have like, prepared a note? Instead of ripping my door off, could’ve just slapped a note to the window or something. ‘Stiles, I know your dad, you’re in danger, we have to go.’” 

The look he got for that made it clear Derek thought that was a stupid idea. To be fair, now that Stiles had said it, he also thought it was a stupid idea. He wouldn’t have gotten out of the car to follow this random stranger God knew where, he’d have hit the gas and raced home. Even if Derek _could_ speak, there was no guarantee he’d have believed him.

Derek had done the best he could with what he had. An unfortunate situation, since it had made Stiles believe he was a murdering kidnapper, but well, he felt like he deserved a bit of forgiveness for that. 

Not like there was any way for him to know Derek was actually trying to protect him. 

When the window finally opened, the tray of drinks and ice cream came out first, Derek taking it and handing it over to Stiles before grabbing for the bag of food, which he put in his lap. They drove out of the drive-thru and back towards the highway, Derek handing the bag over once Stiles had organized the two drinks in the cup holder and put the ice cream between his feet on the floor. 

“All right, let’s see.” Stiles dug into the bag and pulled out Derek’s burger. “For you sir. And this one’s for me. We’ll do fries afterwards.” 

Derek’s eyes shot back and forth between his burger and the road while he unwrapped it, taking a bite. Stiles felt like his stomach was going to crawl up his throat to reach the food in his mouth faster, he was so hungry. He should’ve ordered more than one burger. 

They were still moving through traffic back towards the highway when Derek suddenly veered off the road, Stiles turning to him with the burger at his mouth. Derek stopped in a random parking lot for a store that looked closed and when Stiles raised his eyebrows at him in inquiry, burger still up at his mouth, Derek nodded out the window.

Stiles followed his line of sight and found what Derek was motioning, the Werewolf already out of the car. 

“Wait,” Stiles insisted, mouth full. He scrambled to get the door open and hurried out after Derek, who’d stopped in front of a payphone—those still existed?—and had pulled the receiver off, digging into his pocket for quarters. He popped them into the phone and dialled a number from memory while Stiles caught up to him.

“Hey, dingus, how are you going to speak to whoever’s on the other end?” Stiles demanded. 

Derek turned to give him a look just as Stiles heard the line click and buzzing, someone obviously speaking. Keeping eye contact with Stiles, Derek reached up and stabbed at one of the numbers on the phone, emitting a loud beep down the line. 

The buzzing started up again, seeming relieved and speaking quickly. Derek’s hand was still by the number pad and he hit buttons, sometimes only once, and sometimes twice. Stiles figured that meant he was using one for yes and two for no. Or vice-versa, didn’t really matter. 

This went on for about a minute before Stiles rolled his eyes and grabbed for the phone. Derek held onto the receiver, raising his eyebrows at Stiles. 

“Will you just—you’re gonna run out of time! Let go!” Stiles tugged harder and Derek rolled his eyes, then abruptly let go. Stiles hit himself in the face with the phone and let out a loud groan, reaching up to press the hand still holding his burger against his nose and glaring at Derek. “Mature. Real mature.” 

Derek just looked amused, leaning against the phone sideways and crossing his arms. Stiles glared at him harder and then put the receiver to his ear. 

“Hello? I can speak, this will make things go faster. Who is this?” 

There was a long pause. _“Mieczyslaw?”_

“I prefer Stiles, but yeah. Mieczyslaw. I’m sure you’ve deduced this, but I’m with Derek Hale. Who is this?”

_“My name is Alan Deaton. I know your father.”_

It felt like a punch to the gut. Derek frowned, clearly noticing the shift, but Stiles just cleared his throat and forced himself to keep the emotions buried. “He’s dead.”

_“I heard. I am sorry. He was a good man.”_

“Yeah.” Stiles sniffed, clearing his throat again and tried to bring them back on topic. “So what’s going on? Why are people after me? And what’s with the sparkles since the band came off?”

Another silence. _“The band came off? You mean the restrictor that was around your wrist? It’s been removed?”_

“Yeah, and almost took an entire house down. It was super. What the hell is going on?” 

_“This isn’t a conversation to have over a public phone. You need to get back to Beacon Hills. Do you have transportation?”_

“Well, Derek stole a car.” 

Derek gave him a betrayed look for that and Stiles just shrugged expansively. What was he supposed to do, lie? 

_“Where are you right now?”_

“Uh...” Stiles looked around, trying to figure out where they were. He asked Derek to get the receipt from their McDonalds bag and, while it was clear he didn’t want to leave Stiles’ side, the car was _right there_ so he obliged. He brought it back to him and Stiles read off the address at the bottom of the receipt. 

The man, Alan Deaton, typed away for a few seconds, evidently at a computer, and then told them to go to a hotel down the road. He said to ditch the car, check in at the hotel, and have Derek call him back from the room in the morning. In the interim, he would arrange for a new vehicle for them to pick up in the morning. 

Stiles confirmed he understood, then hung up. Derek stared at him, and when Stiles began to relay everything, he got a look for it. That was when he remembered Derek was a Werewolf, and thus had superhearing. 

“I was being considerate,” Stiles argued, but he and Derek headed back for the car. They finished their dinner sitting in their respective seats with the doors open, and once they were done, Derek moved the car around the back of the store and motioned for Stiles to help him wipes down the inside with their dirty clothes, presumably to cover up any prints. 

Stiles didn’t know if Derek was in the system, but if Stiles had been on the run with government goons his whole life, he _definitely_ was, and he didn’t want anyone finding him. He may not fully trust Derek, but the guy seemed determined to keep him safe, so he was okay trusting him until he could get some more answers. 

They walked towards the hotel Deaton told them about, which was _much further_ than Stiles had been led to believe. Derek made him wait outside while he went to procure them a room, his emphatic jabbing motions at the ground and pointing fingers as clear as if he’d spoken the words. Stiles had no idea how Derek managed to book rooms, but he came back out of the office a moment later with a key and led the way to a room at the end of the first floor. 

Once inside, Stiles glanced at the time and saw it was almost eight at night. He didn’t even know what day it was, time had kind of lost all meaning after he’d gotten dragged out of the Jeep. 

“We’re gonna need to get some new clothes eventually,” Stiles informed Derek while the Werewolf stalked through the room, looking around and clearly assessing it for threats. Stiles let him do it, figuring he was trying to make himself feel better by ensuring their safety. 

Once he seemed satisfied, he went to the bathroom. He didn’t close the door, so Stiles could see him at the sink, washing off his arms and face. Most of his injuries seemed to have healed, but when he finally turned the tap off and towelled off, Stiles could see terrible, not-quite-scabbing wounds around his wrists where the cuffs had been. Derek was scowling down at them, like they offended him. 

Stiles moved up behind him in the doorway, and Derek turned sharply, as if thinking Stiles was about to attack him.

“Calm down, dumbass.” Stiles rolled his eyes and moved into the bathroom. “I’m human, I know how to treat injuries. Pretty sure you didn’t help yourself by letting them sit and fester with bacteria all day.” He dragged him closer to the sink again and cut the tap back on. Stiles washed his hands thoroughly with the soap provided, then tugged Derek’s wrists under the spray and got to work rubbing soap into the wounds. 

Derek let out unhappy little grunts and winced, but otherwise didn’t react and let Stiles work. When Stiles was satisfied Derek wouldn’t lose his hands to infection or something, he turned off the tap and helped pat the wounds dry. 

Once that was done, he gingerly took Derek’s hands in both of his, staring down at the wounds, then flipped his hands over to check the inside. 

“I’m gonna guess wolfsbane,” he said, mostly to himself. “It’s going to take a while to heal if it got into your system. You’re lucky you’re not dead, honestly. Probably why you’ve been pale all day, though. You’re getting colour back, and food obviously helped, but we should look into bandages tomorrow when we grab some clothes, and _definitely_ get some on the go food for the ride. Probably shouldn’t stop for anything but gas, if we can help it.” 

Derek’s hands shifted and Stiles let them go, assuming he was done being inspected, but Derek just turned them around and took Stiles’ hands instead, tugging them closer. Stiles frowned, glancing up at him, but Derek was scowling down at his hands. 

Stiles followed his line of sight, and figured he was looking at the ugly bruises around his wrists. The one on his left wrist had darkened all the way up to the base of his thumb, the bands an ugly purple colour with a lighter blue-green outline around it. 

Derek reached up to rub at one of the bruises lightly with his thumb, and it occurred to Stiles that he felt guilty for having hurt him. 

“It’s not a big deal,” he insisted, tugging his hands away. Derek let him, but it took him a few seconds to drop his own back to his sides. “You were just trying to make me calm down. And I kept hitting you, so...” He winced. “Sorry about that, by the way. The whole beating on you thing. And blaming you for killing my dad. Though you didn’t deny it, so you weren’t helping yourself.” Derek didn’t react to that, he just kept staring at Stiles’ left wrist. “And sorry, uh, for crashing your car and all that. I just—I thought you were kidnapping me. I thought you were the guy my dad was trying to protect us from. We kind of got off on the wrong foot, huh?” 

He knew it was ridiculous, but he straightened and let out a sigh before sticking one hand out. “I’m Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.” 

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him, looking back and forth between Stiles’ hand and his face, then crossed his arms. 

Stiles gave him an annoyed look. “Come on, work with me here.” He shook his hand insistently. “Stiles Stilinski.” 

For a few seconds, Derek didn’t move. Then he sighed explosively, looked to the ceiling as if for patience, and uncrossed his arms to take Stiles’ hand, allowing him to shake it. 

“Nice to meet you, Derek Hale.”

That earned him another eyeroll and Derek dropped his hand. He took a step back, then motioned the shower vaguely before exiting the bathroom. He paused just beyond the door, then looked back at Stiles, cocking an eyebrow and staring pointedly at the door. 

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Don’t lock the door.” 

The raised eyebrows had Stiles scowling. 

“Okay, I’m definitely not keeping it _open_ , so we’re gonna have to compromise.” He crossed his arms. “Open a crack.” He got another look. “Halfway, final offer.” 

Derek seemed to consider that, then turned and headed back into the room. Stiles obediently closed the door halfway, then stripped behind it. He turned the shower on and when he stepped under the spray, it was the most amazing moment of his entire life. He’d never wanted a shower so badly, and he was so excited to finally be in there. 

He took his time cleaning off, shampooing his hair twice, and washing himself down as many times as he could in an attempt to feel clean. He knew it was pointless, since he only had his dirty clothes to put back on, but it was better than nothing. 

When he was halfway through cleaning off for what had to be the fifth time, he crouched in the shower and cried again, his mind returning to his father despite how hard he tried to keep those thoughts at bay. He couldn’t stop thinking of all the times his dad had told him he loved him, and all the times he hadn’t said it back. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if his dad had died thinking he didn’t love him, and that was something he was going to regret for the rest of his life. 

It took a while for him to get himself back together, but Derek didn’t come check on him. He was a Werewolf, he’d probably heard him crying, or smelled his tears or whatever. Stiles just got himself organized, cleared his throat, and then turned off the water. He stepped out and towelled dry, then winced while getting back into his gross, ripped clothes. They _really_ needed new clothes. 

When he headed back into the room, he expected Derek to be sitting in the chair by the door, or maybe lounging on the bed. Instead, he was leaning sideways against the wall by the door, staring out a crack in the blinds, keeping watch. 

“Shower’s all yours,” he told him, moving to the bed and getting under the covers. It was still early, but it wasn’t like he’d gotten any real sleep the past little while. Passing out and sleeping weren’t the same thing, so he was in dire need of a REM cycle right about now. 

Derek turned to him, as if checking what he was doing, then went back to staring out the window. Stiles frowned, wondering if he was going to shower at all. Maybe being that far away from Stiles made him uncomfortable. It was one thing having Stiles in the shower, Derek was ready for a fight if something happened.

If Derek was the one showering, it would probably take him a bit longer to get to Stiles should someone slam through the door. 

“You gonna sleep, at least?” 

Derek didn’t move, which Stiles interpreted to be a ‘no.’ 

“You can’t just stay awake forever, you know. You need sleep too, or you’re going to run out of steam at the worst possible time.” 

When that didn’t earn him even a glance, Stiles just sighed and figured maybe he could convince Derek to let him drive tomorrow. If they were in the car, Derek didn’t have anything to worry about, and he could sleep peacefully knowing Stiles was right beside him in the driver’s seat. 

Stiles lay down and turned off the lamp beside his bed, then got comfortable under the blankets. 

Despite how exhausted he was, he stayed awake for a long time, thinking about his dad, what had happened in the house, Derek, what the men had said about him. 

When he finally fell asleep after eleven, Derek was still exactly where he’d been for the past few hours, diligent and watchful. 

Stiles was pretty sure the Werewolf wouldn’t be getting any sleep at all that night. 

* * *

Predictably, when Stiles woke up the next morning, Derek hadn’t moved from his location by the window. He only turned to glance at Stiles when he sat up, then went back to staring out the window, looking for threats. He still looked pale compared to the first time Stiles had ever seen him, but he wasn’t sure if that had to do with the wolfsbane and torture from the day before, or if it was lack of sleep. 

He also didn’t know if it _was_ the day before, or maybe even the day before that. His internal clock was kind of fucked, at this point. 

When he checked the time, he saw it was just past five in the morning. He was sure wherever that Deaton guy had gotten them a car, it wouldn’t be open until at least nine, but Stiles was already starving again and he was sure Derek was, too. 

“We have the room until eleven?” Stiles asked, because most hotels and motels had checkout around that time. 

Derek just turned to look at him, but didn’t answer, so Stiles took that to mean yes. 

“You know, you _could_ make my life a little easier on the communication front. Nodding goes a long way.” 

The scowl he got for that was unwarranted, in his opinion, but Derek just turned back to the window while Stiles headed to the bathroom to take a leak and splash water on his face. When he was about as good as he was going to get, he tried to ignore how gross his clothes felt and went back into the room, moving up beside Derek. 

“There was a Walmart down the road, we should grab some supplies while we’re waiting for your buddy to get us a car.” 

Derek turned to him, eyebrows raised in a clear, “Are you fucking nuts? No.” sort of way. 

“Look, I know you want to keep a low profile and all, but in case you haven’t noticed,” Stiles motioned the two of them, and their wretched appearances, “we don’t exactly blend in. You have blood all over your pants from the crash, you look like you haven’t showered in a month, and we both look like shit. We kind of stick out.” 

It was clear Derek wasn’t going to let him win the argument, but Stiles just went for the door. He got it unlocked before Derek slammed one hand against it to keep it shut, raising his eyebrows at Stiles. 

“I’m sorry, do you _want_ to attract cops?” Stiles demanded, motioning Derek’s clothes again. “We need to get you some new clothes and, not gonna lie, I could really use some new boxers at this point. Pretty sure I pissed myself a few times over the course of the past week, so new underwear would be super.” 

Derek gave him a look for that and Stiles just raised his eyebrows at him in mock imitation. When he went to open the door again, Derek just kept leaning his hand on it, keeping it shut. Stiles glared at him. 

“You sure you wanna play this game?” he demanded, irritation rising. “I get you’re trying to keep me safe, but again, we kind of stick out. It’s five in the morning, it’s the safest time to go to Walmart. Either you go alone if you don’t want me to leave the room, or we go together, but _one_ of us is getting clothes and supplies, so _back off_.” 

Stiles had only stabbed his finger into Derek’s chest. That was all he did. It was something he’d done to jocks and bullies his entire life, just stabbing at them in the chest with a finger to get them out of his space. 

That was before the band came off his wrist though, and he certainly didn’t expect Derek to go flying backwards and slam into the wall. He slammed into it so hard that it caved inward, the plaster cracking and wallpaper tearing before he stumbled away from it, somehow managing to keep his feet. 

Stiles had slapped both hands over his mouth, as if he’d said some kind of spell instead of just two words. Derek winced, touching his ribs, and made a very unhappy face before looking up at Stiles. 

“I’m sorry!” Stiles blurted out, both hands out in supplication. That was a bad idea, because Derek barely dodged two bolts of electricity shooting out of them and setting the wallpaper on fire. 

“Oh fuck! Oh shit!” Stiles insisted, clenching his hands into fists and moving them behind his back before he set the whole damn _place_ on fire. 

Derek just turned to the closest, still perfectly made bed and grabbed at the pillow. He used it to put out the flames on the wall relatively quickly, then let out a deep, annoyed sigh, dropping it back onto the bed and turning to look at Stiles. 

For a moment, neither of them said anything, staring at one another, one annoyed and one guilty. 

Eventually, Stiles pressed his lips together and rocked on his feet. “That was an accident, but my point still stands.” 

Derek’s look was dark and annoyed, but he seemed to think leaving was safer than staying, at this point, because he moved back to the door, motioned for Stiles to step away, and then inched it open. He looked out for a good long while before turning back to Stiles. He grabbed at his arm to tug him closer, and then made very emphatic jabbing motions at his side, clearly saying to stay close or he’d regret it. 

“Yes, yes, I won’t leave your side, _dad_ ,” Stiles insisted. 

The tease hit him like a punch to the chest, a reminder that every time he said that word, it would inevitably bring up memories of his father, the man who’d risked everything to keep him safe, and had lost his life in that endeavour. 

Derek obviously sensed the shift, because he tightened his grip on Stiles’ arm, not quite tight enough to be painful, but too tight to be comforting. More—grounding. Like he was trying to keep Stiles in the moment. 

It took him a second to tug his arm free, but he instead just repeated that he wouldn’t wander off and Derek finally stepped out of the room. Stiles followed behind him, and the two of them walked down the road towards the Walmart. 

He was pretty sure Derek was going to kill himself long before anyone else managed to take him out. The Werewolf was hyper-alert and literally dragging Stiles along like some kind of bodyguard protecting the President. It was disorienting, and a little painful, and Stiles was positive he wasn’t going to last much longer. He needed to get Derek into a car so he could nap before he gave himself a heart attack. 

The greeter at Walmart was a cheery old man, who fumbled his words slightly at the sight of them. Derek tensed, ready to bolt, and Stiles just laughed and asked if they looked good enough for the zombie movie they were shooting for their film final. The greeter seemed to calm slightly at that and said they looked great.

Derek didn’t let them linger, obviously more interested in getting them in and out quickly, but Stiles knew they needed more than just a few things so he grabbed a cart and started wheeling them through the store. He wasn’t going slow by any means, but he kept having to grab at Derek when he’d try and bypass aisles they should be going down.

Like the one that sported first aid kits. Not everyone was a fucking Werewolf, thank you very much, Derek Hale. 

The clothes were fast, because it was just a matter of grabbing whatever would fit and not worrying so much about style. While Stiles _did_ try to grab graphic tees he thought were interesting, he didn’t linger and ho-hum about whether the green or the blue would look better on him. He just grabbed the closest one and shoved it into the basket. 

The food was easier, since they couldn’t get anything that needed to be refrigerated, so they grabbed a bunch of granola bars and protein-packed breakfast squares. Mostly just snacks they could eat on the road between fast food joints. Stiles also added a bunch of water, since apparently Derek didn’t seem concerned with dehydration. 

When they went to the checkout, Derek didn’t even blink at the price, handing over his card, and Stiles was again struck with the idea that the Werewolf had to have a lot of money. He didn’t seem at all concerned with anything financially, so he probably didn’t have to count pennies like most people did. 

Hell, even Stiles’ father had been forced to keep track of their finances. Sure, they didn’t pay for the houses they lived in, but Stiles knew his dad was still paying off a mortgage—probably in Beacon Hills, now that he thought about it—so they couldn’t just spend money willy nilly. 

The walk back to the motel was miserable, since they had to carry all the stuff, and water was _not_ light. Derek was still looking around like he expected the homeless guy sleeping on a bench to attack them, or the businessman in a suit with a coffee in one hand and checking his watch while speed-walking to pull out a gun and threaten Stiles’ life. It must be hard being that paranoid. 

When they got back to the motel, Stiles said he was taking another shower, since he now had clean clothes to change into. He had to keep the door open halfway again, but he felt so good once he was out and dressed in fresh new clothes that it almost made him feel normal again. 

Derek had taken up residence by the window again, and Stiles motioned the bathroom, as he had the night before. 

“All yours.” 

He got a look for that, then Derek was looking out the window again. 

“Dude, hate to break it to you, but you stink. Like, real bad. And you’re covered in blood. No amount of clean clothes is going to solve that problem, so you need to shower. I promise not to open the door to any gun-toting maniacs looking to kidnap me.” 

He got a _real_ look for that. 

“What if I sat right outside the door?” Stiles asked, motioning the floor right beside the bathroom door. 

Derek kept staring at him. 

“What if I sat _in_ the bathroom?” he asked, frustrated and annoyed. “I’ll sit on the toilet lid, we’ll lock the door, you can keep the curtain open, whatever you need, but I am _not_ getting into a car with you smelling and looking like that. Have a bit of self-respect, dude.” 

Derek’s eyes shifted away, like he was thinking, then he turned to the door. He checked that it was locked, wedged a chair up against it, and then walked to the bathroom, snatching up one of the bags with clothes he’d picked out in it. He stopped right in front of Stiles, raised his eyebrows, and jerked his head towards the bathroom. 

“Seriously? I was mostly joking.” Derek raised his eyebrows and Stiles rolled his eyes. “God, you’re so fucking paranoid.” 

He obediently stepped into the muggy bathroom, taking up residence on the toilet lid, just like he’d said. Derek followed him in and shut the door, locking it and testing it to ensure it was firmly shut. The bathroom wasn’t designed for two people, so Stiles mostly tried to make himself a bit smaller to give Derek more room to manoeuver. 

He’d expected Derek to get behind the curtain before undressing, but should’ve known better since he’d learned in school that Werewolves had no shame. Derek just dropped trou right there in front of him, wrenching off his shirt and having absolutely _no shame_ in standing in front of Stiles completely naked. 

And _damn_ was he fine. 

“Is this a bad time to mention I’m probably bisexual?” Stiles asked, feeling only _slightly_ bad for staring right at Derek’s dick. Man, the guy was hung like a horse. 

Derek snapped his fingers in Stiles’ face, making him look up into the other’s eyes. Derek gave him a, “Seriously?” look, then rolled his eyes and stepped into the shower. He shut the curtain only enough that it wouldn’t splash water all over the bathroom, but not so much that he couldn’t see Stiles. 

“You know, when I imagined my first shower with another man, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. There was more kissing, some light touching, maybe a little bit of dirty talk.”

Derek poked his head out from behind the curtain to give him another look.

“What?” Stiles demanded. “I’m just saying, I was expecting more. Can’t fault me for being disappointed that the only reason I’m in this bathroom with you is because you’re too paranoid to worry about your hygiene in case someone bursts through the door and you have to fight them with your dick out.” 

The look that earned him was one Stiles had seen many times in his life. It was a look that clearly said, “Why me?” while demanding of the Heavens that they be spared Stiles’ incessant chatter. Derek tugged the curtain closed a little more than it had been before and Stiles considered that a win. 

Derek showered quickly, and when the Werewolf shut off the water and grabbed for a towel without stepping out, Stiles just grinned. 

“Aw, are you shy now?” 

That earned him another look, and he felt like he was slowly getting to know Derek’s entire repertoire. He supposed if the guy was a born mute, it made sense he’d have to find a way to express his displeasure when a “fuck you” wasn’t possible. Though Derek didn’t seem to use usual hand motions, and Stiles was surprised he didn’t sign. 

Maybe he did, and assumed Stiles wouldn’t understand. He could learn, though. It wouldn’t take him long, with the memory he had. He just needed a few hours with the internet, or a book, and he’d be able to understand everything Derek said. He never saw him even try though, which was weird. 

And he still hated the lack of nodding or shaking his head. Derek seemed determined to make it as difficult as possible to understand him, and Stiles had no idea why. 

Once Derek was dressed, he gathered his soiled clothes, as well as Stiles’, and shoved them into one of the empty bags. They went back into the room and Stiles sat on his bed with one of the granola bars, eating it to tide himself over until they grabbed real food. Derek scarfed down four, and Stiles figured when they stopped next, he’d order extras for Derek. No sleep, torture and little food was probably not helping the whole pale and sickly thing he had going on. 

They waited until nine before Derek picked up the room phone and dialled out. Stiles had to wrestle the phone away from him so he could speak, because he wasn’t interested in sitting there while the man on the other end tried to get answers.

Deaton sounded alert and rearing to go, giving Stiles all the details for a vehicle he’d managed to procure under the table. They’d have to pay all cash, but the guy was willing to drive it out to the motel for them around ten-thirty, all they had to do was have the money ready to go. 

Derek wasn’t happy about that, because it meant another excursion and at this hour, there were a lot more people out and about. It seemed to take a considerable effort for him to decide what he wanted to do, the Werewolf pacing up and down the length of the room, clenching and unclenching his hands while occasionally glancing over at Stiles. While he couldn’t speak, it was clear he was cursing up a storm in his head. 

Stiles figured he was trying to weigh the pros and cons of leaving Stiles behind versus taking him with him to the closest bank. Realistically, they were in better shape now than when they’d left earlier that morning. At least Derek’s wrists had healed up to dark bruises that were fading by the minute, and Stiles himself had bought a hoodie on a whim in case they ended up sleeping outside in the near future. 

While it was too hot for a hoodie right now, he could suffer in it if it made Derek feel better. It’d cover his bruised wrists, and the hood could obscure his face. Then again, that might draw _more_ attention, so probably not a good idea. 

Eventually, Derek seemed to think it was safer to leave him behind, but he manhandled him rather aggressively into the bathroom and motioned for him to stay. Stiles locked the door once Derek shut it, and heard something heavy get moved in front of it. The room’s door closed moments later, the lock snapping into place, and Stiles really hoped the building didn’t magically catch fire while Derek was gone because there was _no way_ his fat ass would fit through that bathroom window. 

Derek was only gone for seven minutes, tops. Stiles barely made it through all of Bohemian Rhapsody in his head before the lock on the room door turned, and he’d started it after counting to a thousand in his head, so he figured seven minutes was about right given the length of the song and what had come before it. 

He knew it was Derek, because of the hurried footsteps towards the bathroom, the quick drag of whatever had been blocking it, and then the knob turning urgently. 

It didn’t open, because Stiles had locked the door, but the pounding that followed was enough to knock the door down.

“Who is it?” Stiles asked. He got a growl in response, but he could tell Derek was relieved. Like anything was going to happen to him in the space of seven minutes. It would’ve taken at least twelve to get through two doors _and_ move whatever piece of furniture Derek had shoved in front of the bathroom. Unless whoever was after him had a Werewolf of their own, he supposed. 

Derek knocked again, tried the knob, then snarled. 

“Jesus, you’re so paranoid, you can _hear me_ ,” Stiles insisted, rolling his eyes. He climbed off the edge of the tub and went to the door, unlocking it. When he opened it, Derek grabbed at him and gave him an urgent once over, as if worried he’d somehow managed to injure himself while locked alone in a bathroom. 

“We seriously need to talk about why you’re like this,” Stiles insisted. “You like, need therapy. Or a hobby.” 

Derek didn’t comment on that and just pulled Stiles back into his line of sight, motioning the bed, then went back to the window. Stiles turned on the TV while they waited, watching early morning cartoons because what else was there to do with someone who couldn’t talk back? 

When it was nearing checkout, Derek shifted by the door, which caught Stiles’ attention, suggesting their ride had arrived. He glanced at Stiles, then went to the door and opened it, exiting the room. 

Stiles was amazed for the two seconds it took him to realize Derek hadn’t moved from outside the door. He must’ve motioned the guy over because moments later he could hear someone speaking on the other side of the door. It was a short, one-sided conversation, and when Derek entered the room again, he was holding car keys. 

He still made them wait until closer to eleven before exiting, as if wanting to be sure the man was gone, and then they gathered all their items and left the room. Derek drove the car up as close to the office as he could and was gone less than five minutes. Stiles figured he’d probably had to pay for the damages, though considering no one had seen them yet, it was possible maybe he hadn’t had to. 

Either way, while Derek was gone, Stiles moved into the driver’s seat and started re-adjusting all the mirrors until he was comfortable. 

The look he got from Derek when the Werewolf exited the office could’ve curdled milk. He stomped over to the driver’s door, wrenched it open, and pointed at the passenger seat. 

“You need to sleep,” Stiles argued. 

Derek’s eyebrows rose at that statement, and he stabbed at the passenger’s seat again. 

“When was the last time you slept?” Stiles demanded. “You know that you can start to hallucinate and lose all control between seventy-two and ninety-six hours, right? And I’m positive you’ve been running on fumes since you grabbed me back in Virginia. I’d estimate we’re about halfway through Kentucky by now, based on the fact I know we’re in Kentucky and the amount of driving you did. It’ll take us, at minimum, thirty hours to get from here to California, and that’s not including bathroom breaks and the occasional pit stop for gas, food and dare I say, a shower here and there. You plan on staying awake the whole time?” 

His new friend seemed a little taken aback by the amount of information he’d spewed out, but he still didn’t budge, and again jabbed his finger at the passenger seat. 

“I thought you wanted me alive. Do you really want to risk falling asleep at the wheel because you’re a stubborn sourwolf?” 

It was clear Derek did _not_ appreciate the new nickname, but he just kept jabbing at the passenger seat no matter how many arguments Stiles came up with. Stiles had always thought he could out-stubborn anyone, but _boy_ did Derek Hale prove him wrong because he just threw his arms up in defeat after a good ten minutes of arguing—well, as much as one could argue with a mute Werewolf—and obediently climbed back over the partition to the other seat. 

Derek got behind the wheel and slammed the door shut, then growled as he went about rearranging all the mirrors again. He turned to glare at Stiles, as if his entire existence were an inconvenience he didn’t have time for, then started the car and got them back on the road. 

They went through a fast food joint on their way to the highway, and despite being grouchy about Derek’s inability to understand he would probably kill himself by not sleeping, Stiles at least figured it’d be best for him to get _food_ so he ordered double of the meal that Derek tapped out on the board, as well as some extra fries and muffins for the road. 

Derek seemed surprised, and suspicious, but he just grunted what Stiles interpreted as a thanks as they drove up to the window, paid, and headed off. 

Stiles thought Derek to be very strange. He understood now that he couldn’t speak, but the guy didn’t act the way he’d assumed he would for someone without a voice. Instead of just motioning the menu and holding up however many fingers relayed the number of the meal he wanted, Derek always leaned out of the car to tap on it. He never nodded or shook his head, he never tried to communicate with Stiles by writing anything down, or signing to him, or anything that Stiles assumed someone like him would do to get his point across.

He was just angry jabs of his fingers and expressive eyebrows and facial features. It was weird. 

Super weird. 

“So when we get to Beacon Hills, I’m gonna get some answers, right?” Stiles asked him, Derek’s eyes straight ahead while he followed along with traffic on the highway. “Like, someone’s going to tell me what’s going on? Why I can suddenly shoot lightning from my fingertips? Or, you know, why I was _stopped_ from shooting lightning from my fingertips?” 

Derek didn’t even acknowledge him, and Stiles was starting to wonder if he’d just tuned him out after all the talking he’d been doing over the course of the past few hours. 

“I’m just saying, getting answers would be nice, for a change. Not like I’ve been getting any from you.” 

That earned him a look and Stiles waved one hand dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, not your fault. But like, that first night, you could’ve just _typed_ something to me. Like, you can obviously write. If you can read text messages, you can write, so why didn’t you just write me a note, or type out an explanation for me to read, or basically make this infinitely easier for me to know you _weren’t_ a murdering kidnapper?” 

Derek’s lips turned down at the corners, eyes on the car in front of them and hands tightening around the steering wheel. Stiles frowned at the reaction, because it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. 

“Uh, _can_ you write?” he asked uncertainly. 

That earned him an annoyed look. 

“Okay, so, writing. You can do it. When we stop next, how about we grab some pen and paper and you can explain some things to me? Or, better yet, do you sign? If you haven’t because I won’t understand, we can go to a library for like, two hours and I can learn the gist of it. I’m a quick study, I have an eidetic memory.” 

At the inquiring look that earned him, Stiles had to explain that having an eidetic memory was like having a photographic memory, just not exactly the same. Photographic memories were more about recalling everything in vivid detail like opening a book in the mind, whereas eidetic memories was more like flipping through photographs. It wasn’t _as_ perfect as having a photographic memory, but just about. Stiles could remember the most useless things after having only read them once, which was why his father had originally thought he had a photographic memory when he was a child. 

They weren’t hugely different, but just enough that it meant Stiles actually had to pay attention in class to learn things, whereas someone with a photographic memory could literally just glance at the board and remember it. That was how it’d been explained to him when he was younger, anyway. 

“So, what do you think? Library? Two hours?” 

Derek just gave him a look. Stiles got that one the most, which he was going to dub, “You’re an idiot, please stop talking.” Though that was a long name, so maybe he should just assign them numbers. That could be look number one, he supposed, since it was the one he got the most often. 

“You know that your insistence on remaining silent in all ways is only going to encourage me to be as annoying as possible, right? I don’t do well with silence.” 

Derek turned to stare at him for a few seconds and very deliberately turned on the radio before looking back at the road. 

“That won’t keep my attention for long,” he argued. “We need to build some kind of rapport here before I decide you really _are_ the bad guy and I should be jumping out of this moving vehicle into traffic.” 

Derek’s head whipped in his direction at those words and he pointedly locked all the doors. Stiles grinned and twisted to face him more, grabbing at one of the muffins from the bag at his feet and removing the wax paper around the bottom. Derek was casting looks at him out of the corner of his eye, so Stiles split the muffin in half and held the other out to Derek. 

He took it, cramming the whole thing into his mouth. He was kind of adorable, in a grumpy sort of way. Like a big child who got stuck babysitting their younger sibling while all his friends got to go to the movies. 

“So, Derek, how old are you, anyway? I’m eighteen, though I don’t look it. It’s my pudgy cheeks.” Stiles reached up to poke at one of his cheeks. “They make me look like a child, or so everyone tells me. I wouldn’t make it in prison, I’m too adorable.” 

That earned him a scoff and Stiles let out an affronted noise. 

“Hey man, not all of us can be chiselled out of marble like you, all right? Besides, unfair advantage, everyone knows Werewolves are automatically ripped. You guys are like, _born_ with a six-pack. Some of us have to work at it, and it’s not like I’ve had much of an opportunity to hit the gym.” 

Derek shrugged, as if conceding his point, but didn’t even pretend to answer his question about his age. 

“What about home? Where’s home for you? Are you from Beacon Hills? You had a California driver’s license, but I mean, I have a Montana driver’s license, so that doesn’t mean anything.” He frowned. “Since you took my wallet, and then we got kidnapped, does that mean my license is gone? How am I supposed to get new ID without old ID to prove who I am?” 

Unsurprisingly, Derek didn’t respond. He just moved over one lane when the one on their right was traffic merging onto the highway from an on-ramp they were passing. 

“And you’re obviously not working for the same people that were watching dad, so are you like, an independent contractor? That Deaton dude on the phone said that you would protect me with your life, but you don’t seem military or government, so what’s up with that? Are you a bodyguard for hire? Or some kind of like, _Suicide Squad_ Werewolf type who committed a crime and is buying their freedom by doing something for the government?” 

No response. Not even an eyebrow twitch. 

They drove in silence for a long while after that, Stiles just staring at Derek with the half-muffin still in his hand. Eventually, he turned away from him, looking down at the food and no longer hungry. He didn’t want it to go to waste, though, so he broke off a piece and forced it into his mouth. 

“You gotta give me something, here,” Stiles insisted quietly once he’d finished chewing. He forced another piece into his mouth, taking longer to chew this time before speaking again. “Every time I have time to think, I think of my dad. About how we left things. About how-how I’m never gonna see him again, and I can’t...” 

He saw Derek turn to him out of the corner of his eye and Stiles sniffed and managed to stop tears from forming. He wiped at his nose with the heel of his hand, let out a small cough, and turned to look out his window, cramming the rest of the muffin into his mouth. 

He almost choked on it, but managed to refrain, swallowing hard and reaching for one of the bottles of water by his feet. He took a few sips, swiped one hand across his mouth and then recapped the bottle. 

When Stiles went back to staring out the window again, he heard more than saw the movement beside him, and then something tapped lightly at his thigh. He glanced over at Derek, then down at what he was tapping against his leg. 

It looked like Derek’s wallet, so Stiles obediently took it from him. The Werewolf didn’t look at him when he did, just stared out the windshield and continued driving. Stiles eyed him for a few seconds, then opened the wallet and started rifling through it.

The first thing he found was Derek’s license, which he’d already seen but hadn’t given much thought to. He made note of the address just because it was there, and then eyed his birthday. It answered how old he was, anyway. Twenty-three, according to his license. So five years older than Stiles. 

He continued looking through all the items in his wallet, since Derek seemed to have given him approval to do so. He found his own license tucked away behind a few of Derek’s other cards, along with his credit and bank cards. He supposed Derek hadn’t tossed everything in his wallet, he’d just taken it away from Stiles so that he didn’t have anything on him that would identify him as Mieczyslaw Stilinski. 

He left the items where they were, and noticed Derek’s interested head tilt at that, but didn’t comment. He just kept rifling through his wallet and ended up finding a worn out, folded picture tucked away in the bottom corner. He pulled it out and unfolded it, finding what could only be a family photo. 

Three kids, two girls and one boy. Stiles inspected every inch of the picture, and stared at the smiling boy who was so different from the hardened man sitting beside him. 

“Your family?” he asked. Derek let out a slow exhale at that question, suggesting it was a yes. “What happened to them?” Stiles already knew one of his sisters had died, if Deucalion had been telling the truth. The way Derek’s hands clenched more tightly around the steering wheel suggested the rest of his family hadn’t fared much better. “I’m sorry,” he said automatically. “I guess we’re both orphans then.”

It was such a small, little word for something so huge. Being an orphan had such an impact, and Stiles couldn’t imagine how it would feel to lose an entire family. It was hard enough for him having lost his parents, but Derek had had parents _and_ sisters. And all four of them were gone.

He was the only one left. The last Hale. 

Just like Stiles was the last Stilinski. 

He put the picture back and closed Derek’s wallet, holding it out for him to take. He did, shifting so he could shove it back into his pocket. 

“I don’t think I ever said thank you,” Stiles admitted. Derek tilted his head, eyes slanting Stiles’ way briefly before looking ahead again. “For keeping me safe. For everything you’re doing. I don’t know _why_ you’re doing it, if you’re being paid to, or you’re choosing to, or what, but—thank you. And I’m sorry for crashing your car.” 

Derek shrugged one shoulder, like it wasn’t a big deal, but Stiles knew it was. It had been a nice car, and if he hadn’t crashed it, they wouldn’t have gotten captured and Derek wouldn’t have been tortured. 

Stiles looked back down at his hands, waiting for the tendrils of light to appear beneath his skin, but they didn’t. 

He hoped he got some answers when they hit Beacon Hills, because he was tired of all the lies and the secrets. If he had the ability to poke someone and slam them into a wall, he really needed to get some insight on his powers before he accidentally set someone on fire. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- Kate Argent mention. That's a warning all in itself. Kate is a bad person and does bad things. She isn't in the chapter, and we don't hear about what she did, but it's implied she did bad things and I know that bothers some people.  
> \- Derek is chained to a fence and electrocuted, much like he has been in the show.  
> \- Mentions of Laura being killed by the Argents; not depicted graphically or anything, but there's speculation of Argent taking home a prize.  
> \- Someone mentioned that Derek's silence was somewhat triggering so I thought it best to warn right here and now that Derek can't speak and doesn't speak for basically the whole fic. Explained in detail in chapter three.
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Harry Potter (c) J.K. Rowling  
> \- Bohemian Rhapsody (c) Queen  
> \- Suicide Squad (c) DC


	3. The Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR! -throws confetti-   
> I hope everyone has an amazing new year and a prosperous 2020!

It took them exactly thirty-three hours and forty-seven minutes to reach Beacon Hills. Derek refused to let Stiles drive and just drank an obscene amount of coffee. Even when Stiles didn’t order any when they went through drive-thrus, Derek just stopped at gas stations along the way and made Stiles pump gas while he went inside to get energy drinks and coffee. 

He looked like shit when they finally crossed the border into California, but by the time they were halfway across the country, Stiles figured it was safer to stop arguing with him and just let him do what he wanted to get them there faster so that Derek could sleep. He didn’t seem like he’d relax until they were somewhere safe, and apparently ‘safe’ was Beacon Hills, California. 

They arrived around two in the morning, Derek pulling into the driveway of a small two-story house. All the lights were off, and the whole street was dark. It made sense, given the hour, and Stiles climbed out of the passenger side, rubbing sleep out of his eyes since he’d been napping while they’d made their way through town. 

“Is this your house?” Stiles asked while Derek moved up towards the front of the house.

The Werewolf turned to see where Stiles was, rolled his eyes, and moved back to him, grabbing his arm and yanking him towards the house. 

“All right, all right! Jeez, calm down,” Stiles insisted while he stumbled along after Derek. Evidently he was eager to get them inside. 

They climbed the porch steps, and Stiles expected Derek to either ring the bell or pull out a set of keys, but instead there was a keypad where the lock should’ve been. It looked high-tech and sophisticated, allowing entry only to someone who knew the combination.

Seemed a bit risky, in Stiles’ opinion, as well. A lock that could be undone with a code was something easily hacked, in his opinion. 

Derek put in a code, and a lock whirred loudly. When a small green checkmark appeared on the panel, he pushed the door open and stuck his head in, sniffing loudly. Stiles turned to look behind them at the road, making sure no one was there, and then let out a small shout when the front of his shirt was grabbed and he was pulled into the house, Derek shutting the door behind them and locking it.

Stiles was a little relieved to see there were four locks _inside_ the house. So only the one outside to let them in, but if anyone was still inside, it didn’t look like the door could open unless the other three locks were disengaged manually from the inside. Comforting, at least. 

There was a soft beeping sound that was growing faster in speed, and Stiles realized it was an alarm system, which Derek leaned over to disable with ease, snapping the cover shut. He looked over at Stiles, narrowed his eyes briefly, then turned to look down the corridor. 

Derek kept hold of Stiles’ shirt, dragging him through the house while he inspected every room for dangers. Stiles allowed it, if only because it was helping him learn the layout more quickly. It was strange, but the place felt familiar to him, like he’d been there before. All the furniture was covered with sheets, but it was surprisingly clean for a place that clearly hadn’t been lived in for years. 

When Derek seemed satisfied they were alone and it was safe, he left Stiles in the living room and went back out to the car to get their bags. Stiles rolled his eyes at Derek’s inability to think ahead, but didn’t comment on it and instead moved around the living room, lifting sheets to see what was under them. 

The fireplace had a few picture frames, which were face-down on the mantle, and he reached out to grab one, wondering if he’d find more of Derek’s family pictures. The second he lifted the first one, he froze.

The little boy in the picture wasn’t Derek. 

His veins felt like ice and Stiles reached out for another picture with a shaky hand, lifting it upright and staring. 

It was a wedding photo, a little faded and grainy, but still in good shape considering its age. There was a beautiful brown-haired woman in a white dress, much shorter than ones Stiles saw women wearing nowadays. She didn’t have a train, like she didn’t see the point in it, and had a veiled hat on instead of a customary veil. The man in the photo was young and happy, smiling brightly while he kissed his new wife’s cheek. 

The man in the photo was his dad. Younger, happier, carefree, but still him. 

And the woman was his mom. 

And the little boy in the other picture was him. 

Stiles knew why this house seemed familiar. 

The door shut behind him, loud thumps sounding while all the items from the car were dropped unceremoniously in the entrance. Stiles heard four locks click, then beeps as the alarm was engaged once more, and silence.

He knew Derek had come looking for him, even if he couldn’t hear him. He knew that, if he turned around right now, Derek would be there. 

He somehow always was. 

“This is my house, isn’t it?” Stiles asked quietly, lifting the next photo and trying to ignore how overwhelmed he felt. “This is where I grew up. Before—well, before.” He turned to look at Derek, who was standing silhouetted in the living room doorway, arms crossed and face shrouded in darkness. 

After a moment, the Werewolf turned and headed down the corridor. Stiles frowned and set the last picture he’d picked up down—a family photo of the three of them, when Stiles couldn’t have been older than one—and followed. 

He found Derek in the hallway right before the kitchen. He’d turned the kitchen light on so that it illuminated the area he was crouched beside, and had one hand lightly touching the carpet. Stiles approached him quietly, staring down at what Derek was touching. 

It was a dark stain, something that had clearly been washed over and over in an attempt to remove it, but hadn’t been entirely pulled from the beige material. 

“What is that?” Stiles asked. He didn’t miss the twist of hurt on Derek’s face, the downturn of his lips, the tenseness of his shoulders. 

For a moment, Derek didn’t move, and then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He got the picture out, unfolded it, and set it down beside the stain, fingers brushing lightly at his mother’s face.

Stiles’ chest clenched when he realized what, exactly, was on the carpet. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Because if Derek’s mother had died in his house, it was probably his fault somehow.

Everything seemed to be his fault. 

Derek turned to glance up at him, looking exhausted and sad, then stared at the dark stain again. He snatched up the picture and stood, folding it back up and tucking it back into his wallet, then motioned back down the corridor with a jerk of his head. Stiles followed him down the hall and up the stairs, Derek grabbing two of their bags before heading up as well. 

Stiles already knew that there were three bedrooms, courtesy of Derek dragging him through the house earlier, but one of the rooms had a teeny, tiny racecar bed—evidently Stiles’ old room—and the other was the master bedroom, which he didn’t feel comfortable sleeping in. The last room looked like some kind of guest room with a queen bed, freshly made with clean sheets. 

“You need sleep more than I do, so you can have the bed,” Stiles said. “I’ll take the couch.” 

When he turned to head back downstairs, Derek grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him back around, giving him a look. 

“What, even here, it’s not safe for me to be out of your sight?” Stiles asked, exasperated. 

Derek’s expression said, “Correct, it is never safe for you to be out of my sight.” 

“You need to sleep,” Stiles argued. 

It was clear Derek agreed, because he looked terrible and had literally been running on some weird Werewolf adrenaline for the past few days. He definitely needed sleep before he started hallucinating. Stiles was surprised he hadn’t _already_ , if he was honest. 

Derek looked at Stiles, then the bed, then Stiles again. He looked annoyed when Stiles didn’t understand right away and then, with a start, Stiles let out a short laugh. 

“Wait, are you serious? You want to share the bed?” 

The look he got in response was louder than any, “Is that a problem?” Derek could’ve said. 

“My God, you are _so_ paranoid,” Stiles insisted, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m not getting into bed with you until you shower, you have seriously been letting your hygiene slip and I’m concerned that this is your usual state. Please bathe more, you really smell when you don’t.” 

Derek scowled at him, clearly offended, but Stiles just shrugged expansively. It wasn’t a lie, Derek _did_ smell. And Stiles knew he did, too, because no matter how much he argued, Derek had refused to stop when they’d left Kentucky for more than bathroom breaks, gas and food. Forget showers or, heaven forbid, _beds_. It was just drive, drive, drive. 

Well, they’d reached their destination now, and by _God_ , Stiles was going to make the man shower before his stench alone knocked him out. 

“I’ll go first, so you can skulk around the house like a weirdo and protect me from the mice who might have taken up residence in my absence. When it’s your turn, I’ll sit in the damn bathroom with you again because Heaven forbid I should stub my toe, whatever would I do?” 

Look number one hit then and Stiles just threw his arms up in defeat again, then grabbed at the bag Derek was holding and stomped to the bathroom. It looked like someone—probably that Deaton guy—had recently been by to stock up on some things, because there was toilet paper, towels, and random toiletries available in the bathroom, and when he glanced through the glass shower door, he could see shampoo and body wash on the ground. 

He turned to start to shut the door when a hand appeared and forced it back open, Derek raising his eyebrows. Stiles just rolled his eyes and ignored his presence, even though this was going to be a _billion_ times more awkward since there was only a clear glass shower door for the stall as opposed to an actual _curtain_.

It wasn’t at all made less uncomfortable when Derek just planted himself in the doorway with his arms crossed and watched Stiles undress and get under the spray. Stiles just tried his best to pretend Derek wasn’t there, even though that was hard to do and he definitely showered much more quickly than he normally would have. 

He wrapped one of the towels around his waist when he stepped out, and motioned for Derek to take his turn. They moved around each other after he’d locked the door so Derek could reach the shower. He undressed as easily as he had last time, stepped under the spray, letting out a deep, content sigh while he stood there letting water beat down on his bowed head. 

It occurred to Stiles that Derek probably hadn’t _wanted_ to be gross and unclean all that time, but every stop ran the risk of someone seeing them. 

Of seeing Stiles.

Derek had probably figured it was better to be smelly and alive than to stop for a shower and get kidnapped again. 

Stiles made sure not to watch him this time, turning to the sink and grabbing one of the new toothbrushes. He pulled it out of its packaging, uncapped the new tube of tooth paste, and got to work brushing his teeth. It felt so good to have clean teeth, words couldn’t even begin to describe it. Stiles hadn’t realized how much he missed the little things until he didn’t have them anymore. 

When Derek was busy washing his hair, eyes closed to avoid suds getting into his eyes, Stiles quickly relieved himself and made sure he was done before Derek opened his eyes again. Their relationship was awkwardly weird enough as it was without Derek watching him take a piss. It was just about the only thing Derek _hadn’t_ seen him do so far. 

Stiles was dressed and ready for bed by the time Derek climbed out of the shower. He waited in the corner, trying to give Derek space, while the other quickly dried off, brushed his teeth and dressed—in that order. Stiles didn’t know why Derek was trying to torture him with his state of undress, but it was working. 

When Derek glanced over his shoulder from the toilet, eyebrows raised, Stiles motioned the door. 

“I can just step out and wait in the bedroom.” 

Derek gave him a look and Stiles sighed explosively before slapping both hands over his eyes and turning around so he was facing the wall. Listening to Derek take a leak didn’t make this any less awkward, and he waited until the toilet had flushed and Derek was washing his hands before uncovering his eyes and glancing over his shoulder. 

Motioning for him to move, Derek opened the bathroom door and tugged Stiles along with him back to the bedroom. He shut and locked that door, then looked around the dimly lit room, seeming satisfied with its security before motioning the bed. 

“If you steal the covers, prepare to get kicked,” Stiles warned him, climbing in on the far side of the bed while Derek got the light. 

Derek just pulled back the covers on his own side and slipped beneath them, not acknowledging the threat.

Probably because it wasn’t much of one to a Werewolf. Stiles would probably break a few toes long before Derek felt any pain. 

They settled relatively quickly, and Stiles actually expected Derek to pass out and roll over onto him, or drag him into his side, cuddle with him, whatever. It was what always seemed to happen in books and movies when two people shared a bed. 

But, that wasn’t the case here. They both lay down, got comfortable, and Derek was out faster than the light had been. He didn’t move an inch the entire night, dead to the world and not making a sound as he slept save for his slow, deep, even breathing. 

Movies were such liars. 

* * *

Stiles woke with a start the next morning to a loud, melodic sound that his muddled brain took a few seconds to recognize as the doorbell. He blinked blearily towards the window, seeing sun shining through the blinds and able to hear the occasional car pass by as well as birds chirping. He didn’t know what time it was, but definitely later in the morning, maybe ten or something. 

The sound came again, and this time, he managed to recognize it as a doorbell. Someone was downstairs, ringing the doorbell. 

Because they knew Stiles and Derek were here.

Well, obviously, there was a car outside, so _someone_ was here. He wondered if it was that Deaton guy. 

“Derek,” Stiles mumbled, turning his head the other way. 

Derek was lying on his stomach beside him, looking peaceful in slumber, his face relaxed and his breathing still deep and even. Stiles would’ve found it weird he wasn’t waking up at the sound of the doorbell, but considering how many days Derek had been awake and hyperalert, it made sense he was completely and thoroughly dead to the world. 

“Derek,” Stiles said again, reaching out to shake him. The Werewolf didn’t respond, and if Stiles couldn’t hear him breathing, he’d have been worried Derek had died sometime in the night. “Derek, someone’s at the door.” 

As if hearing him, his words were followed by another ring of the doorbell, and then pounding. 

“Shit,” Stiles muttered, sitting up and looking around. For what, he didn’t know, but some kind of weapon, maybe? He doubted whoever it was had come by to hurt him, considering they wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell, but still.

Upon finding nothing, Stiles figured he’d be fine as long as he didn’t open the door. So he climbed out of bed and headed for the bedroom door, then paused, turning back to Derek.

He’d be fucking _furious_ if he found out Stiles had left his immediate line of sight without his permission. And Stiles knew he shouldn’t go looking for trouble but—the place was locked up, there were _four_ locks, three of them which couldn’t even be unlocked from the outside, _plus_ an alarm system.

Not to mention, in his defence, he’d _tried_ to wake up Derek. It wasn’t like he’d snuck out of the room, he’d said his name multiple times, and even shaken him. Wasn’t his fault Derek’s Werewolf-drive was still recharging after the hardship Derek had put it through. 

“I won’t open the door,” he insisted to Derek’s unconscious form. He received no response, so Stiles turned back to the bedroom door and unlocked it. He expected _that_ , more than anything, to wake Derek up, but still he didn’t move, so Stiles opened the door and moved out into the corridor. 

The doorbell was ringing incessantly now, occasional hard pounds on the door interspersed within, as if the person was using one hand to ring the bell and one to bang on the door. Stiles just moved cautiously down the stairs, crouching a little as if to help stay hidden, despite that being a stupid idea since the front door had a clear view of the stairs. 

When Stiles was low enough on the steps to see the front door, he caught sight of a man in the window, looking in while he continued to bang and ring the bell. He froze at the sight of Stiles, eyes wide and almost looking awed. It was an uncomfortable expression to have directed at him, and Stiles straightened before walking down the rest of the stairs. 

He moved up to the front door, stopping just before carpet turned into tile at the entrance, and crossed his arms awkwardly. 

“What do you want?” he asked loudly, hoping it carried through the door. 

“You’re back,” he said, sounding as awed as he looked. He didn’t sound familiar, so it wasn’t that Deaton guy from the phone. 

This man seemed younger than Stiles had originally assumed. He was tall, and relatively harmless-looking, but Stiles could tell he was hiding muscles under the polo shirt he was wearing, and he had strong, thick thighs clearly visible in the tight jeans he had on. 

He couldn’t have been any older than Derek, with cropped brown hair and kind hazel eyes. He held himself a bit like a cop, back ramrod straight and exuding authority. 

That made Stiles uncomfortable. The last cop he’d encountered hadn’t actually _been_ one. 

“Sorry, I just—can’t believe it. You’re actually back.” The way the guy was looking him over made Stiles even _more_ uncomfortable. It wasn’t the same look Deucalion had given him, all hunger and malicious intent, but it was still the look of someone who was staring at Stiles like he was the answer to all his problems. 

“Who are you, and what do you want?” Stiles asked again. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” the man insisted, holding both hands up in surrender. “We were told you were on your way home, and I saw the car in the drive. I knew that meant you were back.” He frowned. “Are you alone?” 

“How about you start answering my questions before asking your own?” Stiles demanded, crossing his arms. “Who. Are. You?” 

“My name is Jordan Parrish. I work for the Beacon Hills Police Department.” He motioned the door. “Can you let me in so we’re not yelling through the door?” 

“Do I look like an idiot to you?” Stiles asked with a scoff. “The last cop I trusted knocked me out and tied me to a chair. Not too eager to make friendly with any more cops.” 

Before this Parrish guy could say another word, there was a loud thump from upstairs and Stiles turned instinctively. He knew Werewolves were usually quiet, but he’d _never_ heard one this loud before, because it sounded like Derek had fallen out of bed and then scrambled to his feet before barrelling down the corridor. 

He practically vaulted over the railing, bypassing the stairs entirely, eyes wild and furious when they finally caught sight of Stiles. He let out a loud roar, more to show his displeasure than to actually scare Stiles, and stormed over to him, grabbing his arm and yanking him back, glaring angrily at him and pointing one finger of his free hand right in Stiles’ face. 

“Yeah, yeah, you Werewolf, me human, got it. Did you not notice our friend?” Stiles demanded, motioning the door with his free arm.

Derek whipped around so fast Stiles heard his neck crack, snarl on his lips while he tugged Stiles behind him. It took him only a second to stop growling, but his expression stayed angry and he looked almost annoyed at who he found on the other side of the door. 

“Nice to see you too, _Derek_ ,” Parrish said dryly from the porch. “Good to know some things haven’t changed. You gonna let me in or are we gonna have this conversation through the door?” 

Derek bared his teeth at Parrish, eyes flashing red. 

Stiles had no idea what Parrish was, but he responded in kind by flashing his own eyes, which turned bright orange, and his skin began to smoke. 

“Uh, should I go somewhere else while you two have this pissing match?” Stiles asked, still mostly hidden behind Derek. If Parrish unleashed some kind of weird power, he’d rather have a shield and not get disintegrated on the spot. 

“Fine,” Parrish grit out. “Through the door it is. Deaton’s waiting for you at the clinic. I’m your escort there, so get dressed and let’s go.”

Derek was still growling low in his chest up until Parrish turned on his heel and stalked down the porch steps. Stiles had no idea what the deal was, but it was clear Derek and Parrish were _not_ friends. 

So, naturally, he said, “Friend of yours?” 

He deserved the glare he got, though the rough shove towards the stairs was a _tad_ more vicious than he felt was warranted. He managed not to trip, but stumbled his way upstairs when Derek shoved at him forcefully to get him moving. 

“All right, all right, I’m going! Jesus, can you just—stop!” Stiles slapped behind himself with one hand, trying to get Derek to stop forcing him to move faster than he already was. 

Evidently, Stiles’ disappearance from his side and Parrish’s arrival had jump-started Derek’s heart in a way he didn’t appreciate, because he was rough and borderline _mean_ while they headed back to the room, shoving and pulling Stiles along where he wanted him and almost knocking Stiles over with the force behind which he used to hand over some clothes for Stiles to change into. 

Stiles winced, rubbing at his chest, and turned away from Derek to pull off his sweats and pyjama top, then yanked on his jeans and a random shirt. He was sitting on the bed getting his socks on, glancing at Derek out of the corner of his eye, who was huffing angrily and moving jerkily while he got dressed. 

“I tried to wake you up,” he insisted when Derek fell down beside him to get his shoes on. Derek turned to him, baring his teeth, and Stiles just hissed in his face. That was enough to startle the anger off the Werewolf’s face. “I wasn’t going to let him in. He kept ringing the doorbell and you wouldn’t wake up. I just went down to see who it was, I wasn’t going to do anything stupid.” 

Derek scowled and then jabbed emphatically at himself, either telling Stiles he shouldn’t go anywhere without him, or that Derek should always be the first person at the door. This one was a bit harder to read, but Stiles felt inclined it was probably a mix of both. 

“Like I said, I tried waking you up. Not my fault you were so tired you were dead to the world,” Stiles muttered, bending down to get his shoes on. 

Derek was still huffing angrily, and he got himself organized before Stiles did. Once he was on his feet, Derek grabbed his arm and started marching him through the house. 

“You want to leave more bruises?” he demanded, tugging at his arm. “I _got_ it, okay? I did a bad thing, can you maybe not cut off circulation in my arm?” 

The Werewolf shot him a look at those words, and while he didn’t release him, he at least loosened his grip to something less bone-crushing. They made it downstairs and to the front door, Stiles wishing he’d had time to brush his teeth or use the bathroom, but Derek seemed a little on edge and he wasn’t brave enough to ask. So he just let himself get hauled out of the house after Derek disarmed the alarm and checked that the coast was clear, and waited while Derek re-engaged the alarm and locked the electronic lock back up. 

Parrish was waiting for them at the end of the driveway, leaning against a cruiser. He motioned the back while pushing away from it. 

“Get in, I’ll drive.” 

Derek gave him a cold look and then moved towards their car instead, opening the passenger door for Stiles and only letting him go once he was half-levered into the car. He slammed the door for him and Stiles really wondered what the beef was between the two since Derek and Parrish glared at each other Derek’s whole walk back around the front of the car. He got behind the wheel and started it while Parrish climbed into the cruiser. 

He at least had the decency to wait for the cop to pull away first, following behind him towards wherever they were going. Apparently to see Deaton at the clinic. Stiles assumed that meant the guy was a doctor and they were heading for his practice, but after ten minutes of driving through town, during which Derek kept shoving Stiles’ head or shoulder to get him to lower himself in his seat, they pulled up to a veterinary clinic that had a temporary, hand-written ‘Closed’ sign taped in the front window. 

When the cars both stopped, Derek climbed out and hurried around the side before Stiles even got his seatbelt off. He had his own Werewolf bodyguard right there when he stepped out of the car, rolling his eyes at the drama of it all, and following Parrish towards the back entrance of the animal clinic. 

Parrish reached it and banged twice on the metal door. It opened a second later, a curly-haired guy around Stiles’ age poking his head out to look at them. His jaw dropped when he caught sight of Stiles. 

“Is that him?” 

“Yeah, that’s him, so can we come in before someone recognizes him?” 

The kid hastily backed away, opening the door as he went, and Parrish led the way inside. Stiles followed him with Derek sticking close to his back, one hand on his shoulder, as if ready to wrench Stiles to safety at the first hint of danger. 

Stiles had thought that Derek would be _less_ paranoid once they hit Beacon Hills, but apparently he was just going to stay glued to Stiles for the rest of eternity. That wasn’t ideal, considering Stiles had spent his entire life in a comfortable prison. He wasn’t eager to live out the rest of it in _another_ comfortable prison _with_ a guard who couldn’t let him take a damn leak on his own. 

They moved through the clinic easily, Stiles looking around and listening to the dogs and cats make noise in the back, probably reacting to the Werewolf behind him and whatever the fuck Parrish was. Stiles had no idea, but he was definitely _something_. 

The kid stopped by an open door and motioned them in. Parrish walked through easily, Stiles following him, and Derek scowled at the kid as they passed him because he was staring at Stiles in awe. He followed them in and shut the door behind him. 

Stiles looked around briefly, finding them to be in some kind of back room in the vet clinic, complete with metal table, desk, and various scary-looking instruments. He’d have been more worried if Derek weren’t right behind him, because if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that Derek wouldn’t let anyone touch him. 

“Stiles.” 

His gaze went to the man who’d spoken, standing from his desk and smiling kindly at him. He had to be Alan Deaton, and he was much shorter than Stiles had expected. A broad man, with dark skin and a calming presence, but at least two inches shorter than Stiles himself was. 

“I’m Alan Deaton, we spoke on the phone.” He held his hand out when he approached and Stiles hesitated before taking it, mostly in case he electrocuted the guy. 

“Hi,” he said in response, letting his hand drop once Deaton let it go. 

“I’m sure you have questions.” 

“Many,” Stiles agreed. 

Deaton smiled kindly once more, then motioned for Stiles to move towards a chair against the wall by his desk. Stiles took a step forward and felt Derek’s hand tighten on his shoulder ever so slightly before the Werewolf let him go. It was clear Derek was unhappy about it, but he didn’t follow Stiles across the room like he’d assumed he would. He just stayed by the door with Parrish and the other kid. 

Deaton sat down in his desk chair and Stiles took the empty one against the wall, trying not to feel like a bug under a microscope, with how everyone was staring at him. The kid by the door still had his mouth hanging open, Parrish hadn’t taken his eyes off him once since he’d first met him, and Deaton was giving him very long and slow once-overs where he sat in his chair.

The only person who wasn’t staring at Stiles in a way that made him uncomfortable was Derek. 

“Have you eaten?” Deaton asked. 

“No,” Stiles admitted. 

Deaton turned to the others in the room. “Why don’t the three of you step out and get some food? I can start filling Stiles in on what he needs to know in the meantime.” 

“Sure,” Parrish said, then turned to nod at the kid. “You okay sitting in back so Derek can get shot-gun?” 

The kid shrugged at that, but Derek snorted and crossed his arms, everything in his stance making it clear he wasn’t going anywhere. Deaton didn’t seem offended—or surprised—but Parrish turned to glare at him, clearly annoyed. 

“You’ve been suffocating him since I got here, and I’m sure you haven’t been fun to be around since you started travelling with him. He’s in the _clinic_ , Derek, what do you think is going to happen to him?” 

Derek didn’t respond, but he didn’t move, either. He just stared at Stiles, tilting his head slightly. Stiles stared back, unsure of what he was supposed to do, but when Deaton cleared his throat lightly, he glanced over at the man. 

“Would you like Derek to leave, or are you more comfortable if he stays?” 

Stiles didn’t understand the question at first, not until Deaton lowered his gaze to Stiles’ hands. When he followed it, he started at realizing his hands were clenched into tight fists on his thighs, knuckles turning white. 

As suffocating and paranoid as Derek was, he’d also been there for him the entire way back to Beacon Hills. He’d protected him, and taken care of him, and had basically made it explicitly clear he wasn’t going to let anything happen to him. Having Derek leave now, while he sat in an unfamiliar room with a stranger who was supposedly going to give him answers he’d been waiting his whole life for felt... disconcerting. 

He didn’t look at Derek when he answered, and while he tried to make like it didn’t bother him either way, he knew that Derek was well aware that it _did_ bother him. 

“I don’t mind either way.” 

“Hm.” Deaton smiled thinly, like he was enjoying a private joke, then turned back to Parrish and the kid. “Perhaps the two of you can handle this errand on your own. Scott, please lock up on your way out.” 

“Sure,” the kid—Scott, apparently—said. He eyed Stiles, still interested, but ended up turning to go when Parrish shoved at his shoulder. He and Derek glared at one another while the officer passed in front of him, then the two left the room. The loud bang of the back door echoed down the corridor a few seconds later. 

“I’m very sorry about your father,” Deaton said, Stiles turning to him from having been watching the door. He felt his chest constrict at the words, but Deaton reached out and rested one hand lightly on his closest forearm. “He was a good man, and he cared for you a great deal.” 

“So much it got him killed,” Stiles whispered, the words like broken glass in his mouth. 

“Your father would’ve done anything for you, Stiles. Do not underestimate the value of a child to their parent.” 

“And what about him, then?” Stiles asked, glancing at Derek. 

The Werewolf had leaned back against a random cabinet, looking around the room as if he’d never seen it before, completely at ease and almost bored. He didn’t seem interested in the conversation, though it was clear he was listening. Not like he had anything else to do. 

“You said on the phone that he would protect me with his life.” 

“And he will, for as long as he is breathing.” Deaton let out a small breath. “Your relationship with Derek is somewhat... complicated. Perhaps he isn’t the best place to start.” 

“You’re right. The best place to start is by asking what the fuck is going on,” Stiles insisted. “What _am_ I? Why are people after me? Why did my dad have to move us around all the time? What was with the spell around my wrist? What does all this sparky shit coming out of my hands mean? Why is everyone staring at me like I’m the second coming of _Jesus_?” 

Derek let out a snort behind him and Stiles turned to glare at him. Derek just arched an eyebrow, still leaning back against the cabinet with his arms crossed. When Deaton let out a small laugh, Stiles turned to face him again. 

“I forgot how much you liked to talk,” Deaton admitted. 

Stiles frowned. “We’ve met before?” 

“When you were very young. When your mother was still alive. You weren’t very articulate, but you did like to speak.” Deaton closed a file he had open on his desk, likely work he’d been looking over before Stiles’ arrival. “How much do you know? About yourself?” 

Stiles shook his head slowly, eyes on a random spot on the floor, then licked his lips and let out a tight, bitter laugh. “Not as much as I thought, apparently.” 

“And why’s that?” 

“All this time, I thought—we always moved, and I thought it was about dad. I thought it was his job, and we had to leave every few months to keep him safe but...” Stiles folded his hands together, clenching them tightly. “But it was me, wasn’t it? It was because of me. I was the one we kept moving for.” 

“Yes,” Deaton admitted quietly. “It was you.” 

“I don’t understand,” Stiles insisted, glancing back up at him. “If I was the one in danger, the one everyone was after, why were the agents always with my dad? I went to school on my own, I went to the store on my own. Why would the agents stay with him?” 

“So that he could never be used against you,” Deaton said calmly. “So that no one could take him and use him to lure you where they wanted you.” 

“That makes no sense,” Stiles argued. “If _I’m_ the one people are after, why was I left undefended?” He didn’t ask it in an angry way, offended at their lack of care for him. It was more desperate, like maybe this was all some huge misunderstanding and he _wasn’t_ the reason his father was dead. This wasn’t about him at all. 

Deaton’s next words killed that thought. “You were never left undefended, Stiles.” 

“I never had any agents on me,” he argued. 

“You didn’t need them.” Deaton’s gaze shifted over to Derek. “You had him.” 

Stiles didn’t turn to look at Derek, but he could feel the Werewolf’s eyes on him. He had to wonder how long he’d been followed by him, how many years Derek had been around him without him noticing. Every time Stiles went to school, went to class, went to the store, grabbed a movie, made a pit stop on the way home. Every time he ran away, tried to escape, tried to sneak out. How long had Derek been there? How many times had he been responsible for bringing Stiles back without his knowledge, all because agents were the ones who came after him? 

How long had he been followed without even knowing it? 

“How much do you know about magic, Stiles?” Deaton asked, bringing him back to the conversation at hand. He’d almost forgotten he was about to get answers, so distracted by the years of being followed by Derek without even realizing it. 

“Not much,” he admitted. “It’s relatively uncommon, and coveted. Different types for different beings. It’s something you’re born with, not taught.” 

“Indeed.” Deaton was still looking at the file, as if he was thinking of the best way to explain what he wanted to say. “Have you ever seen _Avatar: The Last Airbender_?” 

Stiles stared at him. “What?” 

“I find it easiest to explain things to people when they have something to compare it to,” Deaton explained. “Have you seen it?” 

This was already a frustrating conversation, but Stiles just slouched in his seat and shrugged one shoulder, crossing his arms. “Watched the movie, but I heard the show was better. I never got around to watching that since the movie sucked so bad.” 

“Indeed.” Deaton smiled at that, looking up at Stiles. “My comparison stands in this case. In the movie, you meet Aang, who is known as the Avatar, master of all elements.” 

“Yeah, the little bald kid,” Stiles agreed. “Your point?” 

“You mentioned knowing about the different kinds of magic, and how every different being has different magic. Mages, for example, are earth magic. Nature. Witches are more focussed on the body and spirit, healers, protectors. Wizards are more philosophical and learned, Sorcerers are theoretical and space-focussed—”

“Alchemists are magical chemists, Warlocks are offensive rather than defensive, your point?” Stiles cut off, not needing a lesson in the different kinds of Spellcasters. Everyone knew this stuff, it wasn’t exactly rocket science. 

“There is a balance in all things,” Deaton said calmly. “I myself am a Druid.” 

“Huh,” Stiles said, eying him with interest. 

Druids were just about the closest to learning magic as anyone could get. A person still had to be _born_ with magic, but unlike the other types of Spellcasters, even a dud of a Druid could still _become_ a Druid. The others were very specific, if the gene was there but the talent wasn’t, the powers never manifested. Druids were very involved in potions and powders and all that other physical stuff. It was like baking, in a way. Not everyone was born with the ability to bake, but those who were and sucked at it could learn to improve. Druid magic was like being a baker, there was always room to improve, and the door never shut on that magic. 

“As a Druid, I have limitations. I am limited to the abilities that fall within my spectrum of magic. I could try and branch out into another form, but it wouldn’t work. It never does.” 

“Again: your point?” Stiles asked. 

Deaton was silent for a moment, like he was letting the suspense build. That or he wanted to drive Stiles insane. The latter was working, if he was honest. 

“There is a family,” Deaton finally said after an entirely too long silence. “A very old, very powerful family. The Prawdzik family, have you heard of them?” 

“No,” Stiles admitted. “But that sounds very Polish.” 

“It is Polish,” Deaton acknowledged. “This family was... very special. Spanning back generations, they were very unique in that they were like the Avatar of our world. A master of all elements, if you will.” 

Stiles frowned, turning those words over in his head before saying, “Like... Spellcasters of all types.” 

Deaton smiled, pleased that Stiles understood. “Indeed. You see, the Prawdzik family was not limited to magic of their own class. Their family possessed something no one had ever seen before, and that was the ability to wield all forms of magic.” 

“Like the Avatar being able to control all four elements.”

“Precisely.” Deaton looked tickled to have been able to make Stiles understand so quickly. “Their family’s gift made it so that regardless of class, they could control and learn all the different magics across the board. They weren’t limited to only one, and so, there was a new term coined specifically for that family. They were called—”

“Sparks,” Stiles said, mind going back to what Deucalion had said to Derek back in the basement of that horrible house. 

“Yes,” Deaton said, seeming a little confused at how Stiles knew the term. “Someone from the Prawdzik family is known as a Spark, because they are not limited to one form of magic. Of course, having that much power makes them very dangerous, and in a world where magic is becoming rarer by the day, it also makes them extremely valuable. Many wars have been waged in an attempt to obtain the powers of someone from the Prawdzik family, because once they’ve unlocked their magic, once you’ve earned their loyalty, you become the most powerful person in the world.” 

Stiles unconsciously rubbed at his left wrist, feeling his chest beginning to tighten. His mind returned, unbidden, to a conversation he’d had with his father many times. About how once Stiles _knew_ , he could never _un_ -know. How once it was out, it was out for good. 

“As you can imagine, having so many people after the one family put them at risk,” Deaton continued. “This large, powerful family began to dwindle in size. They were kidnapped, sold, traded, treated as less than human. As weapons. By the seventeenth century, it’s thought that only twelve descendants of the Prawdzik survived. By the twenty-first, there was only one, who went into hiding for years, never using their abilities, never making their status known. And then in nineteen ninety-four, a Supernatural event the likes of which the world had never seen before befell us. It was reveal themselves as a Prawdzik descendant, or risk the loss of millions of lives. So this very brave, very selfless individual revealed themselves, and the battle for power began anew.” 

Nineteen ninety-four was only seven years before Stiles had been born. It was two years after his parents had gotten married.

“You’re talking about my mother,” Stiles said quietly, staring at the file on Deaton’s desk, trying not to panic over the bomb that had just been dropped. “My mother was a descendant of these Sparks.” 

Deaton was silent for a long moment, likely waiting for Stiles to collect his thoughts. He wished he wouldn’t, and would just get it over with. 

“Yes,” he finally said. “She was the last. Until you.”

Those words settled like a dead weight right atop his very soul. 

“She...” Stiles didn’t even know what he wanted to say, how he should react. That was kind of a big deal, to spend eighteen years of his life hating everything about his prison, only to realize it hadn’t been a prison at all. He hadn’t been kept moving and sheltered all those years to keep him away from others.

He’d been kept moving and sheltered to keep _others_ away from _him_. 

“Your mother was a brave woman,” Deaton said softly. “I was fortunate enough to have known her quite well. She never told anyone who she truly was, not even your father. But when it came to making a difficult choice, she made the only one she could. I believe she wouldn’t have were you already present, but you weren’t, so she chose to protect those who needed her. Once she was exposed, everyone came after her. Packs, covens, the government, the mafia, Collectors, everyone. They all wanted to own the one person who could do what no one else could.” 

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Stiles admitted, feeling bile rising in his chest. 

His father’s words returned to him once more. _Once you know, you can never un-know._

“Your mother struck a deal with the government,” Deaton said softly, not acknowledging Stiles’ words in the slightest, and seeming uninterested in giving him time to process. He probably figured if he didn’t get it all out now, he never would. Better to force everything onto Stiles in one go and let him have a breakdown than have to pause in between and give him time for multiple breakdowns. 

“In exchange for her cooperation, they would keep her and your father safe. They relocated here, to Beacon Hills, and while they mostly kept to themselves, they knew this was the safest place for them. Your mother knew this was the safest place in the world for her to be. It was the only reason she managed to stay when she found out she was pregnant with you seven years after she was exposed.”

“Why?” Stiles demanded, bending forward and struggling not to vomit all over the place. He stared down between his knees at the floor, attempting to keep his breathing even and controlled. “Why here?” 

“Because the Hales were here. And because Claudia knew that no matter what happened, the Hales wouldn’t let anyone touch her, or her son.” 

Stiles looked up at him briefly, not understanding, then glanced at Derek. He was still staring off at the far wall, looking bored and unaffected by Deaton’s words, but Stiles knew he was listening. 

“This is where I rewind a little bit,” Deaton admitted. “I’ve explained the history behind the Prawdzik family, but there is another family who is much older and very well-known. Just as you yourself, and your mother, are both Stilinskis and not Prawdziks, this family was the Gevaudan family.” He paused here for a moment, then said, “They are known to be the first Werewolves.” 

Stiles was still mostly bent over, but his gaze shot back to Derek, who finally glanced over at Deaton, as if wanting him to get on with it and stop stalling. His eyes met Stiles’ briefly before he turned back to stare at the wall, looking every bit as unconcerned as ever. 

“The Gevaudan family was very powerful, and very influential. For a time, they were the most feared given who they were and what they could do. As time passed, and the Prawdziks came to power, there was a power struggle between the two. Before the Prawdziks were whittled down in number, there was a bloody war between the two families for dominance in Europe until eventually, in an attempt to avoid more bloodshed, the Gevaudan Alpha and the Prawdzik High Priest came to an agreement. They appointed successors, and would fight to the death in a battle of honour. The winners would be deemed most powerful.” 

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Stiles muttered, still bent over and staring at the floor. He was starting to feel a little numb now, detaching himself from this as if he were just listening to a bedtime story as opposed to a very real history he knew nothing about.

Wasn’t like they taught this kind of stuff in history class at school, though considering, he felt like maybe they should. They always stayed very focussed on _human_ history, which was ironic, given there weren’t very many truly human people left anymore. 

“This was the middle ages, Stiles, it was what mattered at the time,” Deaton explained simply. 

“So they fought, and the Sparks won.” 

“Not exactly.” He could hear the smile in Deaton’s voice, but didn’t look up. “They set the date for the battle, but the day of, Hunters passed through town and recognized the Gevaudan for what they were. They began to slaughter the pack, children and all. The Prawdziks did not take kindly to the murder of children, and they went to their aid. Two families who had been at war for years, ready to end it with one final, bloody battle, came together to drive the Hunters out of the area.”

“Awesome, they banded together to fight a common enemy, how convenient,” Stiles said sourly. It was very cliche, and not at all the ending he’d been expecting to the story, but he couldn’t say he was displeased. 

It beat two morons fighting to the death. Though it didn’t explain why the Hales mattered to his mother. 

“It was a beneficial alliance,” Deaton said simply. “The Gevaudan wouldn’t have survived the attack on both sides, and the Prawdziks were not so power-mad to deny them aid when their young were being slaughtered at the hands of animals.”

“Hurray for compassion, I guess,” Stiles muttered. 

Deaton ignored his sarcasm and continued. “Once the threat had passed and the dead were laid to rest, it was discovered that, while the Alpha himself had survived, his successor had not. He asked the Prawdziks for time to gain and train a new successor, but the Prawdzik High Priest denied his request and instead suggested an alliance. It was clear they worked well together, and they stood to gain more as allies rather than enemies. The Gevaudan agreed, and the two formed an uncomfortable alliance. Two years later, the Alpha died, and the Hunters returned with a larger army to finish off the pack.  
The new Alpha was sure the Prawdziks wouldn’t honour their alliance and didn’t call for them. They attempted to fight off the Hunters on their own, and it wasn’t until the fourth night that it became clear they would lose. Still they didn’t call for aid, but on the fifth morning, the Prawdziks arrived anyway.” 

“Let me guess, true love saved the day,” Stiles said sarcastically. Derek snorted across the room, but Deaton let out a small sigh, as if not liking Stiles’ attitude on the matter. 

“The Alpha’s youngest daughter went to the Prawdziks requesting their help. She was only seven. The High Priest was furious the new Alpha didn’t trust them enough to ask for their help, and they immediately took up arms and went to aid their allies. Once the war was over, the new Alpha apologized for his lack of trust, and acknowledged that many more had died than was necessary. As penance, he made a blood pact with the Prawdzik High Priest. Any and all future descendants of his line would forever and always protect the Prawdzik family. It was an oath bound by magic and blood, and spanned across generations. Every Prawdzik descendant has always had a Gevaudan protecting them, because the oath is so powerful that the Gevaudan family cannot help but follow through on their ancestor’s promise.”

Stiles let that sink in for a few seconds, thinking over what Deaton had just said. He still felt sick, but he managed to sit up, putting a bit of mental distance between himself and the situation to try and wrap his head around what he was being told. 

“So you’re saying mom knew that the Hales were descendants of the Gevaudan family? And that she knew they would protect her?” 

“Your mother didn’t know until Talia Hale approached her.” Deaton smiled slightly. “The oath is absolute on one side of the agreement. All Gevaudan descendants immediately recognize someone who is part of the Prawdzik family, and while your mother knew that there was a family out there sworn to protect her to the death, she wouldn’t have known it was the Hales. Talia had to approach her, and tell her that she was a Gevaudan. And once she confirmed who she was, and promised your mother she would keep her family’s oath, she agreed to stay. Because Talia and her family would do as they’d sworn to do, and that was protect her and, eventually, you.” 

Stiles glanced at Derek again. He was looking right back this time, but he still looked bored. Uninterested. Like none of this was news to him. 

“So Derek’s not doing this because he wants to,” Stiles said slowly. “But because he _has_ to?” 

“Yes and no,” Deaton said, also looking at Derek. The Werewolf didn’t acknowledge him, continuing to stare at Stiles. “As with any spell, the oath can be dissolved and Derek would be free to be on his way. But something of this nature is a sense of responsibility for a Werewolf. His family knew the moment they saw your mother that she was someone they had to protect. They could feel it in their very bones and in that regard, your mother became a pseudo pack member. When you were born, so did you. The Hales have protected you as long as you’ve been alive.” 

“But I’ve never even _seen_ him before,” Stiles insisted, turning back to Deaton, because Derek’s gaze was intense. “He just _showed up_ the day my dad—” He cut himself off, unable to say it. 

Deaton watched him for a long moment, then let out a small sigh, leaning forward in his seat and watching Stiles intently. 

“I am sorry to bring this up, but it is relevant. You have known Derek long before this, you just don’t recall meeting him.” 

“What?” Stiles demanded. 

There was another short silence, another small sigh, and Deaton said, “You met Derek and Laura Hale the same night they lost their mother. And you lost yours.” 

Stiles’ chest constricted at the words, but he didn’t dare look at Derek. 

“You wouldn’t remember, you were too young. People came for your mother, looking to possess what they had no right to pursue. You were out with your father and Michael Hale, but your mother was home and she was with Talia. When the men came for her, she fought back. Talia fought back. But everyone has limits, and strong as your mother is, magic always has a price. When she fell, Talia protected her. To her dying breath, as per the oath. The men were going to take your mother, but your father returned as they were attempting to subdue her. And suddenly, they found an easier target.” 

Stiles felt like he was going to be sick all over again. “Me.” 

“Nobody outside of Beacon Hills knew she’d had a child,” Deaton said quietly. “It was kept very secret, the government kept their end of the deal and protected your family. But they saw your father return with you, and it suddenly became very clear how much easier it would be to take a child, and end up with an obedient weapon.” 

Standing from his chair, Stiles raked both hands through his hair and began to pace while Deaton continued. He wished he wouldn’t, he felt like he’d heard enough. He didn’t want to know any more, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but _need_ to know everything. 

“Michael Hale intervened. He married into the Gevaudan side of the family, but his wife died to protect your mother, so he was going to do the same. Your father ran with you, and your mother and Michael Hale held them off as long as they could to let you escape. Your mother had already exhausted her power, and she pushed through all of her reserves to keep her child safe. She did not outlast Michael.” 

Derek’s mother had died protecting his. His mother had died protecting him. And Derek’s father had died protecting both of them. 

Stiles’ father had died protecting him.

Everyone who tried to protect him died. He was like a poison, a disease. 

“Your father contacted the government as soon as he was able, and it wasn’t long before Laura Hale found the two of you.” Deaton hesitated. “She was twelve.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles hissed, rubbing his face with both hands. “And Derek?” 

“He was nine. He was with her. That was the first time you met.” 

Stiles didn’t want to look at Derek. He didn’t, but he couldn’t help it. He glanced over at him, and found him as expressionless as he’d been since the moment the story had started. As if this was all old wounds to him and didn’t affect him in the slightest. As if he didn’t begrudge Stiles for costing him his family, his freedom. 

“The government knew people would be after you,” Deaton continued softly. “The last Spark. The only one of its kind. And a child, no less. You were only four, very easy to manipulate, very easy to control. You were brought to CIA headquarters along with the Hale siblings, who refused to leave your side, and the decision was made for you to leave. To move, to stay guarded, to never be caught. They entertained the idea of Witness Protection, but there were complications, particularly with concerns within the CIA and what people looking for more power would do with you if they could get their hands on you by any means necessary. So your father decided on how to proceed.   
Derek Hale stayed with you for a time, but was sent to live with his uncle and younger sister when all the plans were eventually finalized. He wasn’t happy about it, but he did it. Laura Hale followed you wherever you went. She was the one who told your father when it was time to move on, when the dangers were getting too close, when people around you began asking too many questions. She was the reason the agents never spoke to you, never even looked at you, because they knew what would happen if any of them laid a hand on you. They knew about the Alpha Werewolf lurking in the shadows.  
When Derek turned sixteen, he wanted to join Laura, fulfill his duty. His uncle refused, and Laura was happy not to let him follow. It was too dangerous, and she didn’t want him to get hurt. There were many arguments on the topic until finally he—rebelled.” 

Stiles caught the look Deaton shot Derek when he turned back from pacing to the other end of the room, but the man was quick to focus back on Stiles. Stiles didn’t look at Derek himself, he kind of didn’t want to look at him ever again after what he’d been told. 

He felt ashamed and horrified to know how much Derek had lost because of him. 

“Derek disobeyed his sister, his Alpha. He went looking for you, following the bond created by the oath. Someone else found him first.” 

The way Deaton went perfectly still at the growl from Derek made Stiles turn to him without meaning to. Derek looked extremely unhappy, hands clenched against his arms where he’d crossed them and every muscle tense. 

Deaton lifted one hand in a calming gesture, and when he spoke next, he chose his words very carefully. “He was taken by a Hunter family. He was with them for two years before anyone was able to locate him. Laura asked your father for permission to leave your side to save him. Your father yelled at her for asking and told her not to come back until she had Derek.” 

Stiles thought back to that basement in Kentucky, and the name Deucalion had said that had made Derek so scared. 

“Kate.” 

Deaton looked startled that he knew, but Derek snarled so viciously that Stiles flinched away from him, then turned to give him an apologetic look. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. 

No one spoke for a long moment, until Derek’s hands relaxed against his arms, and Deaton deemed it safe to continue. 

“Yes,” he said carefully, eyes still on Derek. “Laura rescued him, but she couldn’t send him back to their uncle. He—was not okay when he was freed. He needed a distraction, an outlet for his rage. So she finally let him join her in watching you. He was eighteen by then, and it was good for him to feel like he was making a difference.” 

Derek snorted, like that wasn’t exactly how he’d have put it, but he didn’t sound aggressive about it so Deaton continued. 

“They followed you everywhere, until—well, the Hunter family that had Derek wanted you, and they found out where you were. They went after Laura and Derek first. Derek escaped. Laura didn’t.” 

Stiles felt like Deaton was being very inconsiderate about how he was handling all the dead relatives, but he supposed he wasn’t trying to be. He was just trying to give Stiles the full picture, to explain who he was, what he was, why Derek was protecting him. 

“He became Alpha because of that, didn’t he?” Stiles asked quietly, still pacing the length of the room. 

“Indeed. That was just over five years ago. Derek’s been following you ever since.” 

“Where did he stay?” Stiles asked, glancing briefly at Derek. “When we moved, I mean.” 

“With the agents, usually. Laura always checked in with me every few weeks, and after—well, Derek began to check in. In his own way.” 

Stiles figured he was referring to the whole not being able to talk thing. He was ready to move away from this whole topic, and ask to just go sit in a bathroom for a couple hours to get his head on straight—and maybe throw up a bit—when a thought occurred to him. 

Deaton had said there had been _arguments_ about Derek joining Laura to protect him, and the word choice was interesting to him, because he felt like there was a better way to phrase something like that when considering a person who couldn’t speak. 

Then he remembered what Deucalion had said, about how Kate would be happy to know Derek was still silent as the grave. 

_Still_ silent as the grave. It was an interesting thing to say about someone, unless they weren’t _born_ mute. And now Stiles was wondering if Derek’s silence was something outside of his control. 

It must’ve shown he was chewing something over on his face, because Derek cocked an eyebrow at him and when he faced Deaton once more, the man tilted his head slightly, as if in inquiry. He wanted to ask, he really did, but he didn’t know _how_ without it coming out sounding—well, inconsiderate. He didn’t want to be like Deaton, but he also finally had someone willing to give him answers, and while he didn’t want them anymore, he reminded himself that one meltdown was better than several so best to get everything out of the way at once. 

“You said...” Stiles licked his lips, casting a glance at Derek before continuing. “You said he argued with Laura. To come and protect me.” 

“Very heatedly,” Deaton agreed. 

Stiles hesitated once more, cast another look at Derek, then forced the words out when he shifted his focus back to Deaton. 

“That means he could speak back then.” 

Deaton’s eyes shifted to Derek briefly, and Stiles didn’t turn, but he felt like Derek must’ve given Deaton some kind of signal because the man looked back at Stiles and nodded once. 

“Yes, Derek could speak. His muteness is not by choice.” 

Stiles wanted to ask what happened, wanted to know why Derek no longer spoke, but he didn’t know if asking would be callous or hurtful. He opened his mouth, closed it, and before he could decide what to do, Deaton continued as if taking pity on him. 

“The Hunter family that captured him, the—woman,” he said, shooting Derek a look, clearly uninterested in repeating Kate’s name, “she has magic in her. It’s not strong, but it’s enough for her to be a valid threat. It’s how a born Werewolf was taken down so easily. She took his voice from him.” 

“Why?” Stiles asked, despite having tried to stop himself. 

“She wanted him to say something to her. He refused. She said he would say those words to her, or he’d never say anything at all again. He still refused. So she took his voice and now he’s like this.” Deaton motioned Derek, but Stiles didn’t turn. “If I’m honest, it isn’t much of a change. Derek was never very vocal to begin with.” He smiled slightly and Stiles heard the scoff from behind him, but didn’t turn. 

“That really sucks,” Stiles said quietly, twisting so he could just see Derek out of the corner of his eye, not feeling confident enough to face him yet. “I’m sorry.” 

Derek shrugged one shoulder in a, “Whatever, it happened, I survived,” sort of way. 

“But he can read, right?” Stiles asked Deaton again. “He can read, so that means he can write. Or sign, even. How come he doesn’t do that?” 

“It’s part of his curse,” Deaton admitted softly, almost sadly. “Anything construed as common communication is affected. He can read, yes, but he can’t write anything, and he can’t sign. He can’t even nod or shake his head in answer, because it’s too much communication. He can’t directly answer anything, but we’ve found loopholes. He can nod his head towards something, just not in a ‘yes’ fashion. He can grunt, but not in answer to a question, more in the way you can use it as a rude means of saying ‘thank you.’ If I were to ask him how old he was, he wouldn’t be able to hold up his fingers, but he could go to a calendar and point to the number on it.” 

Stiles remembered how Derek hadn’t even told him what meals he wanted when they went through drive-thrus. He always leaned out of the car to tap the one he wanted. 

“That’s how you communicated over the phone,” Stiles realized. “You ask yes or no questions, and he hits the button once for one answer, and twice for the other.” 

Deaton smiled slightly and nodded. “Indeed. Same with texting. He can’t answer yes or no, but if I give him a yes or no question, he can type back a one or a two to answer. We’ve found methods of communicating as best we can, though I’m certain she didn’t take his eyebrows into consideration. Those are a language of their own.” 

“Oh thank God, it’s not just me!” Stiles blurted out. Because really, he’d started wondering if it was just him. If he was just so desperate to feel like he was _conversing_ with someone that he’d just made up the ability to read Derek’s facial expressions. Apparently it _wasn’t_ just him, and that was immeasurably comforting. 

Deaton smiled at him, and then gave Derek an amused look, presumably because the Werewolf had done something behind him. When it was clear Deaton had more to say, Stiles cut him off with a thought. It was partly because he wanted an answer, but also partly because he didn’t want to hear anything else depressing right then. 

A little bit more of a breather would be nice. 

“So after Derek kidnapped me—” A grunt from behind him and he rolled his eyes. “After Derek _took_ me, and we were in the motel, were you the one texting with him?” 

“I believe so, yes.” 

Stiles nodded, eying Deaton. “And you knew he couldn’t speak to me, or explain anything, because of this curse, right?” 

“I did,” Deaton confirmed. 

“Right.” Stiles eyed Deaton again before thumbing over his shoulder at Derek. “Why didn’t you just call his phone and speak to me yourself to explain everything so I wouldn’t think he was a kidnapping serial killer and attempt to run away from him?” 

Deaton stared at him for a few seconds, then looked away to the side, like he was thinking over Stiles’ words. When his lips parted slightly, Stiles realized that the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. 

“I... hadn’t thought of that,” he finally admitted after a brief silence. “That would have been helpful.” 

“Yeah, no shit,” Stiles insisted, sighing and raking a hand through his hair, going to sit back down in the chair and feeling drained. 

And hungry. 

He hoped that food showed up soon, he was extremely done with this conversation. This one, and any conversation of varying similarity. He didn’t want to hear anything else, though he was sure he would. 

And he was right, since Deaton eyed him briefly before moving them back into dangerous waters. 

“How long have you had the restrictor off?” Deaton asked quietly. 

Stiles instinctively rubbed at his left wrist, remembering the feel of pain, as sharp as ever, even though he hadn’t felt any in days. 

“Since Kentucky, when we got caught. It’s how we escaped.” He hesitated. “Who put it on me?” 

“Your mother,” Deaton admitted. “Powers like these are difficult to control, especially when you are a child. Strong emotions can sometimes cause unexpected bursts of power.” Stiles thought back to poking Derek in the chest and having him fly into the wall. “The restrictor was only a temporary measure until you were old enough for her to train you. After she passed, it was deemed— _prudent_ that it remain in place until such a time as you could be told about what you are.” He eyed him briefly. “Did it hurt coming off?” 

“Not really.” Stiles had been a little bit distracted at the time, so he honestly couldn’t remember if he’d felt any pain. “For a few seconds, it felt like drowning. Like I wasn’t getting enough air. Then it snapped back into place and I felt fine.” 

“Interesting,” Deaton said, eying him curiously. “You’re very lucky. Your mother had warned us that removing it pre-maturely, or without the proper procedure, could have dire consequences.” 

Stiles frowned. “How dire?” 

“As I understand it,” Deaton smiled, amused, “there was the possibility that you could explode.” 

“I’m sorry, _what_?!” Stiles demanded, then rounded on Derek. “I could’ve _exploded_?!” 

Derek was still leaning back against the cabinet with his arms crossed, and he gave Stiles an unconcerned look before shrugging, every inch of him clearly saying, “Could’ve, but you didn’t.” 

“You can’t just tell someone to break a spell and _not_ give them the full picture! You almost _died_ , by the way! Remember that part too?” 

Derek just shrugged again. “Inconsequential,” his expression said. A risk he was willing to take, as long as Stiles got away. 

This entire situation was messed the fuck _up_! 

“Training you is going to be difficult,” Deaton admitted, forcing Stiles’ gaze back to him. “There is no one else in the world like you. I’m afraid it is going to be a long, difficult road. I have contacts, and we can all attempt to teach you our own methods, but the mix will be... challenging.” 

“What about the government?” Stiles asked. “The CIA, or whatever?” 

“What about them?”

“Shouldn’t I tell them I’m okay?” Stiles insisted. “Call them up and, you know, just let them know? ‘By the way, I didn’t die, thanks for doing a shit job protecting my dad’?” 

“That—may not be wise,” Deaton said carefully. “Your father knew he needed the government’s aid to keep you safe. He didn’t have the monetary means to move you as often as was required, and while he trusted Laura to keep you safe, Beacon Hills had failed him once before with his wife. He needed to keep you moving until you were old enough to know who you truly were, and could begin training, control your abilities. In exchange for their aid, the government staked a claim on you. They weren’t helping you out of the goodness of their hearts, but more out of a sense of ownership. If they protected you and your father, it allowed them access to you whenever they pleased. When you were old enough to be of use, they could come calling. It was an agreement your father signed off on, despite the fact he shared with us that he wasn’t going to honour it. They were a means of keeping you safe, but he wouldn’t allow them to use you as a weapon.” 

“You’re saying my dad told you this?” Stiles asked, eying him suspiciously. 

“Your father and I have discussed many things at length, yes.” Deaton smiled slightly. “I am the Hale pack’s Emissary, as well as the town Druid. I have always been privy to your location and your progress. I understand your hesitance not to share your whereabouts with the people you think have protected you your entire life, but they cannot be trusted.” 

“Why not?” Stiles asked. “I’m trusting you.” 

“Actually, you are trusting him,” Deaton said, nodding towards Derek. “I have no illusions that you trust me at all. If you did, you wouldn’t have wanted him to stay. And I understand. But please know, many people in Beacon Hills are only looking to keep you safe. Not as a means to gain your favour and thus your power, but because we owe a debt to you and yours, in some fashion.” 

Stiles frowned, but before he could ask, Deaton unbuttoned the top of his shirt and tugged at the collar, exposing a small lightning-shaped tattoo on his collarbone. Stiles started when he realized it was the same one that the woman back in Kentucky had shown Derek to make him calm down before he was released. 

“I’ve seen that before,” he admitted softly. 

“Possibly more times than you realize,” Deaton said, releasing his collar and doing his shirt back up. “We are called the Order.”

“The Order,” Stiles repeated. “Generic.” 

“Well, being too specific would lead to complications,” Deaton said with a small smile. “Our aim is not to be discovered, but we all share the same goal. Protecting you.” 

“I thought that was his job,” Stiles said numbly. He didn’t motioned Derek, but Deaton knew who he meant. 

“Indeed. We are different. As I said, his family made a blood oath with yours. Those of us in the Order are merely indebted, some personally, others through generations. You have more protectors and supporters than you realize. People who will never let anything happen to you.” 

If Deaton thought he was making Stiles feel better, he wasn’t. What he’d been told was already a lot to handle, but hearing how many people were willing to die for him, were risking their lives just by being _near_ him... 

Hadn’t enough people been killed already because of him? 

“We chose this,” Deaton said softly, as if sensing the shift in mood. “Stiles, you have to understand, this—”

The door banged open and Stiles tensed. He heard Derek move quickly, evidently checking on who it was, but Deaton didn’t react in the slightest. It made sense, considering he _had_ told Scott and Parrish to fetch them breakfast. 

Stiles could hear the two of them chatting while they came down the corridor, but before they reached the room he was in, Deaton got to his feet. 

“I’ll give you a moment,” he said softly. “We can continue our discussion after you’ve had something to eat. We will wait for you in the front.” 

Stiles didn’t say anything, but Deaton moved away from him. He heard him speak softly to Derek, but the growl he got in response suggested Derek was going to ignore his silent request to leave Stiles be. 

When the door shut, he heard Deaton’s soft tones through the door while he spoke to Scott and Parrish, but not the words. Their voices faded and he knew that meant they’d gone around to the front, just like Deaton had said they would. 

The room was silent. So silent that for a moment, Stiles thought maybe he was wrong, and Derek had followed Deaton out. He wouldn’t blame him. He didn’t understand how Derek was there. How he was protecting him like Stiles wasn’t the reason his life was shit. 

His mother died protecting Stiles’, his father died protecting him, Derek got captured while trying to find Stiles, his sister was killed while protecting him. All in all, Derek should hate him. He should’ve let Stiles return home, find his murdered father, let Deucalion take him, torture him, do what he wanted with him. 

Stiles couldn’t understand how someone could have suffered that much at the hands of another, and still find the strength to keep them safe. Obsessively so, considering how Derek was around him. It made Stiles wonder how hard it must’ve been for Laura and Derek to keep their distance for all those years, but maybe it had been easier back then. Maybe having no one know who Stiles was barring his father and the agents made it simpler to stay back and watch from a distance. 

Now that he was out, that people had found him and were after him, it made sense for Derek to be hyper-vigilant like he was. He couldn’t sit on the sidelines anymore and hope Stiles would be okay, and if his entire family had died protecting him, Derek wasn’t going to let anything happen to him or their lives had been forfeit for nothing. 

He jerked when Derek appeared beside him. He’d been so silent Stiles had _honestly_ thought he’d left, but he should’ve known better. 

The Werewolf stood a little too close, then slowly moved around in front of Stiles and took Deaton’s seat, eyes tracing every line of Stiles’ face as if he could read him like a book. Stiles looked anywhere but at him, not trusting himself to react well at the sight of him. Not knowing what he’d see on Derek’s face. 

He instead just looked down at his hands. There were shadows dancing beneath his skin, different from the lines of white electricity from before. He wondered if there was a reason for the difference. Maybe his dark mood was making dark magic come out. Who knew? 

Certainly not Stiles. 

“How can you even stand to look at me?” he asked, voice low and strained. “After everything... you lost everyone because of me. How can you sit there and worry about me like I mean anything after what my existence did to yours?” 

Derek said nothing—unsurprising, considering the curse. And fuck, even _that_ was Stiles’ fault. Derek’s captivity, his torture, his eventual stolen voice. It was all Stiles’ fault. He didn’t understand how Derek didn’t want to just tear his throat out with his teeth. 

They were both silent for a long while, Derek sitting forward in the other chair with his forearms resting lightly on his thighs. Eventually, the silence was probably too much for him. After all, Stiles had done nothing but talk his ear off since they’d been together. 

Slowly, carefully, Derek reached out and placed one hand on Stiles’ knee, squeezing comfortingly. He didn’t want to look up at him, but similarly, Stiles didn’t feel he had the grounds to refuse. After all, he was the reason Derek’s life had fallen to shit. 

He glanced up, and the expression on Derek’s face _hurt_. Because it was complete and utter understanding. Derek knew how much Stiles blamed himself for everything, and the way he looked at him made it very clear that he didn’t believe any of the horrible things Stiles was thinking about himself. 

“It was my fault,” Stiles insisted. “Your family, your voice...” 

Derek gave him an unimpressed look, and the hand previously on his knee retreated. It shifted upwards, and Stiles almost jerked back when Derek’s fingers touched his cheek lightly, thumb brushing at moisture on his face. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. 

They sat frozen for a moment, Derek’s hand still touching his cheek lightly, and Stiles staring back at him, not at all understanding how this Werewolf who’d lost everything because of him could still stare at him like he was the most important person in the world. 

Letting out a weary sigh, Derek let his hand drop after an age and got to his feet. He gave Stiles’ stomach a pointed look, then jerked his head towards the door, a silent command for him to get up and get some food into him. 

“I need another minute,” Stiles insisted, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “I just... it’s a lot. That was a lot of information. You can–you can go, if you’re hungry. You can start without me. I’ll be fine.” 

The look he got for that was unimpressed, a clear, “If you stay, so do I, but nice try.” 

Derek sat back down, and while he didn’t touch Stiles again, he inched his chair closer so that their knees almost bumped each other. Not touching, just close enough that Stiles could lean on him for support, if he needed to.

Stiles appreciated it, and found it strange that he hadn’t known Derek for more than a few days, because he felt comfortable with him. Comfortable, and familiar, and _safe_. He supposed it was the days of travel, not to mention Derek had apparently been watching him for years.

“Just give me a minute,” Stiles said quietly, resting his elbows on his thighs and burying his face in his hands, trying to sort out his jumbled, messed up feelings. 

Derek gave him twelve minutes and forty-seven seconds. That was how long it took for Stiles to push back the mental breakdown and finally get to his feet.

When he left the room, Derek was right on his heels, ever-present, and ever-watchful. 

His very own guardian Angel. Or guardian Werewolf, but the point still stood.

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- There is a lot of background information on both Derek and Stiles' side, so there's talks of people being murdered (as in canon). Nothing explicitly depicted, but a majority of the Hales die, as does Stiles' mother.  
> \- The chapter briefly touches on Derek's time with Kate, but not in detail.
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> Avatar: the Last Airbender (c) Michael Dante DiMartino & Bryan Konietzko


	4. Meeting the Family

Breakfast was an awkward affair. Well, Brunch. Lunch? Stiles didn’t even know anymore, he had no idea what time it was, he just knew it was fucking _awkward_. 

He hadn’t noticed at first, because his brain was all over the place and he kept struggling to understand how this could possibly be real, and how Derek didn’t want him to just get knifed and tossed into a ditch on the side of the road, but when he was halfway through his meal, he noticed. He hadn’t asked for anything specific, so Parrish and Scott had gotten a variety of things and let Stiles choose what he wanted with the rest of them taking whatever was left.

He’d been way too overwhelmed by something as pathetic as choosing his _breakfast_ and had just stood there frozen while staring at the food. Derek ended up choosing for him, grabbing some pancakes with a side of hashbrowns and handing the takeout box over. Stiles hadn’t realized how grateful he’d be for someone _else_ to make a decision before. He was generally very independent, but now his brain was a mess. 

Which was why it took him so long to notice how awkward it was.

Because Parrish and Scott couldn’t take their eyes off him, staring at him like he was some kind of alien. Deaton was more subtle about it, but Stiles could feel his eyes on him every now and then, too. And he also knew that his conversation with Deaton was far from over, but he honestly didn’t know how much more he could handle today. 

He just wanted things to go back to normal. He never thought he’d want that in his life, always dreaming of the day he was an adult and could waltz out of the house and never return. Escape his comfortable prison, pretend it had never happened. 

Now, he’d give _anything_ to be back there. Sitting across from his dad, grumpy and annoyed, while they ate dinner and his father attempted to make small talk. It occurred to him that he had no idea what had happened to his dad’s body. Had the government—had they buried him? Had they even bothered to take him from the house and given him a proper burial? Or was his body just dumped into a giant furnace and incinerated, not a care in the world for how the son he’d left behind would feel? 

And honestly, much as he trusted Derek—he had to, the man had risked his life to protect him—he didn’t know how he felt about not telling the government about where he was. They’d protected him his entire life, and he knew nothing about these people he was with now. They were just _people_ who were _telling_ him they wanted what was best for him. But they could be like everyone else. Just trying to use him, get what they wanted out of him.

After all, if they took care of him, supported him, provided for him, who was to say that he wouldn’t become reliant? Stockholm syndrome wasn’t just for kidnappers and their victims, it was an actual mental state about anyone who could manipulate someone else into relying on them for everything. Right now, Stiles had nothing, and these people... they were providing. 

Derek had taken care of him the entire way back to Beacon Hills. Deaton had given him answers. Parrish and Scott had brought him food. Stiles didn’t have money, he didn’t have a job, he couldn’t even go out without worrying about someone coming after him, now. He was entirely dependent on these people who were telling him they would keep him safe. And that was terrifying because what happened the day they turned around and asked for something in return? 

No one did anything like this out of the goodness of their hearts, and as their meal progressed, and the awkwardness continued, Stiles’ anxiety grew. He didn’t finish his food, mind going a mile a minute, struggling to determine what to do. If he wanted to leave, if he decided to just run, tell these people he didn’t want their protection, would they let him? 

If they didn’t, was it because they wanted to use him, or because they truly cared for his well-being? And if they did, was it all a trick to make him believe he had a choice, and would then stay because of the illusion? 

But similarly, if they were telling the truth, and he went off and contacted the government, then they’d come for him. They’d keep him safe in some new comfortable prison, and with his powers no longer being forced back, how long before they started expecting things from him? How long before they made him work for them, do what they said, become the weapon he was clearly construed as to others? 

That was the problem. Stiles might not know enough about what he was, what this whole Spark thing meant, but he understood enough from what Deaton had told him to know he was nothing more than a weapon to others. Whoever controlled the Spark controlled everything. 

It didn’t explain how his mother had died, if she was that powerful, but it wasn’t like their conversation was over. He was sure that Deaton had many more things to share with him, but with how Stiles was feeling, he didn’t know if he wanted to hear any more. He was kind of at his limit for the day, and still reeling and uncomfortable over both how everyone was looking at him, and whether or not he could honestly trust these people. 

When they were finished eating, Deaton got to his feet and motioned for Stiles to head into the back once more. He hesitated, for barely a second. He honestly hadn’t thought much of his slight pause before he got to his feet, but he should’ve remembered he had a Werewolf in the room with him, and before Stiles could head into the back, Derek was in front of Deaton with one hand on his chest, pushing him back a step. 

“I’m not going to harm him,” Deaton reminded Derek calmly. “I understand your concern, but—” When Deaton tried to take another step forward, Derek pushed him back a bit more forcefully, which had the Druid pause. 

Stiles just stood by the door leading into the back, watching the exchange without really understanding what was going on. Deaton seemed to slowly be cluing in, but Parrish just looked annoyed at the aggressiveness. Scott was still too busy staring at Stiles to notice anything weird was going on. 

“Derek, we have much to discuss,” Deaton said calmly. “I don’t think—” 

Derek pushed at Deaton again, not hard, but enough to make him step back. Then he turned and walked over to Stiles, taking his arm lightly and pulling him into the back.

“Derek, we’re not done here,” Parrish snapped, coming up behind them quickly. Derek didn’t turn and just sped up, still pulling Stiles along. 

Stiles thought they were going back to the room, but Derek was tugging him towards the exit. It took him a second to realize why, and once he clued in, he was startled. Derek understood how much of a strain this had been on Stiles so far. He understood how hard this had all been, how much Stiles’ mind was in disarray, how _scared_ he was. 

Derek was saying that was enough for one day. 

“Derek!” Parrish insisted, catching up to them easily. He grabbed at Stiles’ other arm, which was definitely a mistake. 

Derek’s snarl was vicious, wrenching Stiles free from Parrish, shoving him forcefully behind himself and closer to the exit, and was slashing claws at the officer before Parrish could react. There was a shout of surprise laced with pain, Parrish jerking back quickly and looking down. Four identical slashes were visible through his shirt, blood beginning to well up and stain the light material.

Parrish’s expression was livid when he looked back up at Derek, his eyes turning orange. “You’re such a _dick_ , Derek! He doesn’t _belong_ to you!” 

“Jordan,” Deaton said calmly, having come up behind them. “Let them go. Derek is doing what he thinks is best for Stiles. We can continue this discussion at a later date.”

“ _When_?!” Parrish snapped, not taking his eyes off Derek. “When others come for Stiles? When his house is surrounded and Derek can’t protect him on his own anymore?” 

That earned him another snarl, but Parrish’s entire frame was beginning to smoke and lines of cracked skin were forming along his arms and neck, fire dancing through the gaps. Stiles had no idea what the fuck Parrish was, but it didn’t look like something Derek should be messing with. 

Unless he wanted to get barbecued. 

“Jordan,” Deaton said again, calmly. “Perhaps you should consider Stiles.”

“I _am_ considering him,” Parrish snapped angrily, still focussed on Derek before his eyes slid past him to Stiles. “I just—”

He stopped. 

Stiles had no idea why, and Derek whipped around, as if a part of him was worried Stiles had made a break for it. He hadn’t, he was still exactly where he’d been when Derek shoved him behind himself to the door. 

Derek’s expression was tight with concern and Stiles had no idea why until he looked down. Black tendrils, almost like shadows, were slowly beginning to creep up his arms from his hands, fingertips a deep black, tapering off to a lighter grey as it rose up his arms past his elbows. 

Great, now he couldn’t leave until he got whatever the fuck _this_ was under control. 

“Yeah, that’s a thing that happens sometimes,” Stiles said. Not this, specifically, but he’d noticed that every time he got worried or stressed or basically felt anything other than indifference, his hands did weird things. 

It occurred to him that this was probably why the restrictor had hurt. It was his abilities trying to come out, and the spell pushing the power back, and it was like ripping his arm off his body, two different sides of the same magic fighting against each other. It made sense the restrictor was stronger, considering his mother was the one who’d done it. 

He stared down at his hands for a long while until he heard movement and Derek was suddenly in his space. He reached out and lightly wrapped both hands around Stiles’ wrists, squeezing gently, then began to rub lightly at the inside of Stiles’ left wrist with his thumb in slow, soothing circles. 

Stiles didn’t know why it made him feel better, but it did. He didn’t know if it was about Derek, or the whole blood oath thing, or just because Derek seemed to be the only person who looked at him like he was _normal_. But having him there helped, and while it still took about four and a half minutes for the black to recede, it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. 

As soon as it was clear Stiles was okay again, Derek turned sharply to Parrish, glaring and snarling. 

“We understand,” Deaton said before Parrish could speak up. “We’ll give him today to come to terms with everything. But you know as well as the rest of us that he needs to begin training, and we cannot leave him in the dark. So I will come to the house tomorrow.” 

Derek grunted, probably the closest thing to ascent as he could do given his curse, and turned back to Stiles. He searched his expression for a few long seconds before releasing his wrists and taking a step back. His eyes caught sight of something behind Stiles and he eased past him easily, grabbing a hoodie off a rack by the back door.

“That’s mine,” Scott insisted, but the glare Derek levelled at him made him take a step back behind Deaton. “But that’s cool. You can-you can have it. Don’t like that hoodie much anyway.” 

Derek thrust it at Stiles, clearly wanting him to put it on. It was hot as Satan’s ass outside, but Stiles obliged and tugged the red hoodie over his head. Once it was on, Derek grabbed the hood and pulled it up, making sure it covered as much of his face as possible. 

“What about you?” Stiles asked. 

“Derek hasn’t been back here in years,” Deaton said easily. “I think his concern is you, at the moment. You do look very much like your mother.” 

_Great,_ Stiles thought with an internal sigh. If he started getting people saying that to him a-la- _Harry_ - _Potter_ , he was going to lose his temper very quickly. 

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Stiles,” Deaton said as Derek strode to the exit, unlocked the large door and poked his head out. 

Stiles just nodded awkwardly at him and then moved over to Derek, who grabbed a fistful of his sleeve and tugged him out after him quickly. They headed for the car, Derek getting Stiles into it before hurrying around the hood to get behind the wheel. Stiles felt like having someone _that_ protective of him was going to chaffe really badly—it already was, honestly—but for right now, after the bombs that had been dropped on him, he appreciated Derek’s easy companionship. 

Derek wasn’t expecting anything from him, and he wasn’t going to force him to talk about his feelings—not that he could, given the whole being mute thing. But still, he’d never made like he expected anything from Stiles, and it felt... nice. Comforting. Having someone like Derek around was calming. 

He expected them to head back to the house, since Derek was probably having massive heart palpitations every time anyone looked their way, even at red lights, but surprisingly he drove them through town. When he saw them heading for the exit of Beacon Hills, he wasn’t sure what to make of this decision, but he trusted Derek so he didn’t say anything.

It was obvious his silence was unnerving, because Derek kept casting him looks out of the corner of his eye. Not that he blamed him. Stiles hadn’t shut up the entire time they’d been together, but he kind of had a lot on his mind right then, so he kept his mouth shut and just thought about what he’d been told. 

He just—didn’t understand. Even in _The Last Airbender_ , it wasn’t about everyone going after him because they wanted his power, it was either to help him save the world, or to reclaim honour in that one scarred dude’s case. No one had chased after him wanting to _possess_ him, but then again, Stiles hadn’t seen the show, just the movie. 

Still, it was... unnerving. To think about what the government would’ve done once he was old enough to be told the truth. To be trained. If he’d stayed with them and his dad, what would they have expected of him? Even now, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Deucalion had said. About breaking him and re-creating him how they saw fit. 

Conditioning was totally a thing. And now he was worried someone was going to take him and reprogram him and he’d just turn into some obedient puppet. A weapon of mass destruction, if what Deaton said was anything to go by.

But it _still_ didn’t make sense. If he was as powerful as they were all saying, how was it that his ancestors hadn’t been able to easily defeat Derek’s? If they were really all-powerful beings, wouldn’t that mean the Gevaudan should’ve been annihilated in seconds? But they hadn’t been, so why? 

And how was it possible his mother had managed to expel enough magic to save millions of lives, but hadn’t been able to protect herself, or Derek’s mother, or even Derek’s father from people coming after her and her son? There were too many holes in this damn story, and he didn’t get it. 

He was leaning his head against his window, staring out at the passing scenery while his thoughts raced. He’d always wanted answers, but now that he had them, he also had more questions. The main one being: what now? 

Deaton had said training him would be difficult, considering what he was and what he could do. But there was also the fact that everyone was looking for him. Concerned citizens who’d seen the news and thought he’d been kidnapped. The government, who’d protected him for fourteen years. The bad guys, who wanted to own him. And Deaton had mentioned others, as well. 

Packs, other Werewolves who wanted to have the strength of the Spark in their midst. Covens, likely for a similar reason. The mafia? That one Stiles was a little surprised about, he didn’t think about the mafia as being a real thing. He knew, logically, that gangs and the mafia all existed, but it was so outlandish and ridiculous that he usually relegated people like that to movies and books, not real life. 

How silly to think about Werewolves and Witches and all that other stuff without batting an eye, but the mafia seemed far-fetched and made up. What a world to live in. 

But he felt like the one that concerned him the most was the last one Deaton had said. Collectors. Was that a thing? People who owned other people as part of some sick and twisted collection just because they were rare or different or special? It was surreal and disgusting all at once. 

Stiles didn’t know how that would work. Would he be thrown into a cage and drugged up and left out on display for people to “ooh” and “ahh” at? Like some kind of commodity? Some kind of animal in a zoo? 

It was gross and scary and he definitely didn’t want that. Better than being used as a weapon, but if his options came down to a collection piece or a weapon, well, he knew which one he’d choose. 

They’d been driving out of Beacon Hills for almost ten minutes when Derek took an exit, and Stiles frowned. He’d thought they were leaving, and would’ve been fine doing as Derek said—well, implied, given the silence—but it turned out that wasn’t what this was.

They were heading to another Walmart, apparently. He’d have thought they could stay in town for groceries, but it made sense that Derek would want to go somewhere with minimal people who’d recognize them, and where they could get everything they needed at once.

Stiles didn’t exactly have a multitude of clothes right now, and he definitely didn’t have many necessities, not to mention food. Or a bed.

He really wanted his own bed. Not that sharing with Derek was a hardship, the guy was fine when he was asleep. Didn’t even steal the covers or anything. But Stiles wanted his own space, and he was hoping that Derek would eventually calm down now that they were back in Beacon Hills. 

Derek parked as close to the door as possible. It wasn’t particularly busy, only about a dozen cars in the lot, but it occurred to Stiles that he had no idea what day it was. He wondered if he’d missed graduation, and tried not to be bitter at the thought that he’d _almost_ made it to graduation before this shit had all started. Now he was probably never going to graduate. 

Despite the place clearly not being busy, Derek was still twitchy when they exited the car and headed inside. He kept looking around like some kind of bodyguard checking for threats, and was a million times more conspicuous than if he’s wandered in with an arm wrapped around Stiles’ shoulders. 

The greeter gave them a weird look. Stiles really felt like Derek was being _more_ paranoid instead of _less_ since they got back to Beacon Hills. Maybe it was because enough people had known his mother and the chances of him being recognized were much higher.

Stiles grabbed a cart, Derek still glaring at literally everyone for no God damn reason, and then they slowly made their way through the store. Stiles was glad for the air conditioning, given it was hot and he had a hoodie on. He wanted to roll up his sleeves, but he didn’t know what his hands and arms looked like. Sure, he’d gotten everything back under control before they’d left the clinic, but he didn’t know himself well enough to feel comfortable exposing his arms in a public place.

Honestly, he was surprised he hadn’t been flinging fire and melting cars by accident since the restrictor came off. Small miracles, that. 

Because this was a more permanent stay than the last time they’d been at Walmart, they actually went through the place much slower. Derek seemed to realize his anxiety was making people notice them more, so while he didn’t leave Stiles’ side, he tried to be less obvious with how he was watching people. It didn’t help that he was acting like some kind of kidnapper keeping Stiles on a leash, and more than once Stiles had to nudge him out of his personal space to make him less creepy. 

They spent a long time in the clothing section. While not Stiles’ first choice for clothes, he was more looking forward to having different things to wear again. And pyjamas. He really, _really_ missed pyjamas. He hadn’t exactly been sleeping in the most comfortable clothes of late, and he was looking forward to sitting on a couch in nothing but sweats and a loose tee and just being comfortable. He missed being comfortable. 

The cart was already almost half full by the time they left the clothes behind, moving into toiletries. Deaton—or whoever—had already stocked the house up with a few items, but Stiles still grabbed a razor and his preferred brand of toothpaste. Derek grabbed a few things for himself as well before they moved on. 

Stiles ended up insisting they go back for a second cart when they got to the food, because it would be stupid to shove things overtop their new clothes—which also reminded him they needed laundry detergent, as well as dish soap, and it was super disorienting having to buy so much at once. Derek, of course, dragged Stiles back to the front with him to get the second cart, but having the two made things infinitely easier in that Derek couldn’t crowd him quite as much. 

They got a variety of food, ranging from canned, to produce, to dairy and frozen. Stiles mostly let Derek choose, but grabbed a few things every now and then. He wasn’t a particularly picky eater, and living with his dad and his heart condition had made him pretty used to staying away from terrible food.

Not to mention all the fast food they’d been eating on the road, he’d never missed salad so much in his life. He kind of just wanted to eat a carrot for dinner, but he knew himself well enough to know that feeling would dissipate after two bites.

Or maybe one.

When they hit the electronics section, they continued on without slowing—Stiles had to stick close to Derek, and Derek didn’t stop, so he resigned himself to boredom and followed. The electronics was right beside where they had books and magazines though and a thought occurred to him. 

“Wait here,” Stiles said, leaving the cart behind and moving towards the books. He should’ve known that Derek wouldn’t listen, but didn’t get annoyed by it. He just perused all the books quickly for something, but was disappointed when he didn’t find what he was looking for. 

He _did_ find two books with interesting covers though, so he grabbed those and decided they could stop on the way home somewhere for him to pick up what he’d originally walked over to find. 

Derek brought them to the checkout after that and Stiles winced as the number kept creeping higher, and higher, and _higher_. He kept casting glances at Derek, but he didn’t seem at all concerned, watching the cashier swipe their items and put them into bags. Stiles was the one who started moving them from the counter to the carts, and when the total came up, he tried not to get anxiety about it because it was... pretty high. 

Just like last time, despite the stark difference in price, Derek handed over his credit card, waited for the machine to acknowledge everything was approved, then put it back into his wallet. He grabbed the last few bags off the counter and waited for Stiles to wheel the one cart out of the store, following behind him.

Once everything was in the trunk and they were back on the road, heading for Beacon Hills once more, Stiles’ fidgeting was beginning to get noticed. Derek let out an annoyed sigh and turned to give him a look, eyebrows raised in a clear, “What is your deal? Spit it out.” sort of way. 

“I can pay you back,” he said softly. “I don’t—really have money right now, but eventually. I’ll pay you back.” 

That earned him a _real_ look. Look number one, actually, where Derek clearly thought he was an idiot and wanted Stiles to stop talking. 

“You’ve spent a lot of money on me,” Stiles argued. “I just want you to know I’ll pay you back when I can.”

Derek just shrugged and rolled his eyes, those actions a little harder to decipher, but Stiles took it to mean it wasn’t a big deal but if it would make him feel better, then fine, he could do as he pleased. He felt like he did pretty well with Derek’s non-verbal cues and wondered how long it had taken other people to figure him out.

Or how long it had taken Derek to perfect this method of discussion. Had he practised it at length with his sister when she’s saved him? Had she been confused, angry and hurt when she’d thought her brother wasn’t speaking to her out of anger before realizing it was a spell? And how had Deaton discovered the specifics of the curse to know that Derek couldn’t nod or shake his head? Stiles could see now that it was true, since Derek had never once acknowledged anything in a clear fashion, but how long had it taken everyone else to figure out _exactly_ what was wrong with him when he couldn’t tell them? 

It made him sad, to realize someone had literally lost their ability to communicate with others. To make friends, or even just small talk, have a conversation. It made him wonder how much Derek resented Stiles’ constant chatter. Did he hate hearing him talk so much knowing he had no way to ask him to shut up? Or was he jealous and angry that Stiles could just talk and talk for hours on end and he himself couldn’t even nod his head? Or was he even relieved that someone was speaking in general, because maybe other people didn’t speak to him much since he didn’t respond in the conventional sense?

That last one made Stiles sad. He wondered if Derek missed having conversations with people, and even though he couldn’t reply, Stiles seemed pretty good at reading him so maybe it was comforting knowing he wasn’t entirely isolated because of the curse. 

It also reminded him of what he’d been looking for at Walmart and he turned to Derek when they were getting close to town again.

“Hey, can we stop at a bookstore before heading back?” 

Derek scoffed and turned to raise an eyebrow at him. Stiles just scowled. 

“It’ll take two seconds, I just want to grab something.” 

Derek rolled his eyes, scoffed again in a clear ‘no’ fashion, and faced forward again. 

Stiles hesitated. “It’s for you.” 

_That_ got his attention, Derek turning back to him, frowning in confusion. He had to face the road again since it was winding, but Stiles could see his eyes shifting back and forth in thought, as if wondering what Stiles was thinking and trying to determine if this was a good idea or not. 

Eventually, curiosity must’ve won out, because when they were back in town, they ended up stopping in a small outlet that housed a few restaurants, a small grocery store, a dry cleaner’s, and a bookstore. It looked like a small, independently owned one as opposed to one of those huge chains, but it was fairly large so he hoped they’d have what he was looking for. 

Derek followed him in, but for once he didn’t stick close to his back. He looked around briefly before heading towards the woman sitting at the cash. She looked to be maybe a year or two older than Stiles himself, but he didn’t stop to pay attention to what Derek was doing, he just went through the small store looking for what he wanted.

He found it near the back end of the store, pulling a large book off the shelf and flipping through it, as if to make sure it was actually what he was looking for. Since Derek wasn’t hovering, Stiles took his time making his way back to the front, perusing all the fiction titles and pulling a few off the shelf to flip over and read the back. 

He found four he was interested in and moved to join Derek, who was still at the cash. The girl had leaned closer to speak to him softly, and Stiles wondered if she was flirting with him. Derek was hot, wasn’t like Stiles was blind, but for people who didn’t know about his inability to speak, his silence was a little unsettling. 

Derek turned when Stiles approached and the woman behind the till smiled at him, leaning back and giving him a once-over. It took Stiles a few seconds to realize there were already some books on the counter, as if the woman had grabbed them for Derek. How she’d known what he wanted, he had no idea. 

“You’d be Stiles, then,” she said, startling him into looking away from the books Derek had chosen and looking up at her. 

She was beautiful, with long black hair, kind almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones. She was of Asian descent, and held herself with confidence and grace all rolled into one. 

Her skin was flawless, Stiles was a little awed at the sight of her. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” She smiled kindly at him, holding her hands out for the books he held. “Parrish said Derek was back, and I haven’t seen him in years, so I knew if he was around, so were you.” 

“You know each other?” Stiles asked, looking between them. Derek was just frowning at what Stiles had picked up, as if confused. Or maybe annoyed, it was harder to read this one from a profile. 

“Yeah, we went to school together.” She smiled, ringing through all their books and putting them in a bag, pushing it closer to Derek and then leaning forward on the counter, crossing her arms on top of it. Stiles noticed that the balance on the till said zero, though he hadn’t seen Derek pay. “His uncle lives in town.”

“Really?” Stiles was a little startled, and he wondered if this was his uncle on his father’s side, considering the oath. He hadn’t heard or seen anything about the man, so he likely wasn’t involved in the whole ‘protecting Stiles’ thing. 

“Yeah, he’s been taking care of Cora.” 

Derek growled, but the girl ignored him, still looking at Stiles. 

“Cora? Who’s Cora?” 

“Derek’s younger sister.” Her eyes slanted Derek’s way then. “You still haven’t gone to see her, have you? It’d be nice if you did. You haven’t seen her since everything went down with you know who.” 

Derek just glared and grabbed the bag of books, then looked at Stiles and jerked his head towards the door before striding over to it. 

“Uh, I’m still not done with this conversation,” Stiles insisted, looking back at the woman. 

She grinned at him, holding out one hand. “Kira Yukimura.”

“Stiles Stilinski.” He shook it in return before shoving his hands back into the pocket of his hoodie. “Nice to meet you.” 

“You too. It’s kind of surreal having you back here. With him, no less.” She jerked her head towards Derek, who was huffing angrily by the door. “Surprised you can survive that attitude of his. He’s lucky we’ve been friends for so long or I’d have kicked him to the curb for being such a dick to me all the time.” She turned to Derek then. “You don’t call, you don’t write, one would think you didn’t care about me at all.” 

Stiles felt his chest clench at the words, but Derek just rolled his eyes and the corners of his lips twitched, like he was going to smile but managed to stop himself. Kira herself was grinning, but she caught the look on Stiles’ face and sobered quickly. 

“Oh, don’t worry, he prefers it when people act normal with him as opposed to tip-toeing around what happened. Don’t dwell on his lack of communication too much, okay?” She winked. “His actions speak louder than words.” 

Derek knocked loudly on the door to get both of their attention and jerked his head more emphatically towards the exit, raising his eyebrows at Stiles. 

“Right,” Stiles said. “We have groceries. Um, it was nice meeting you,” he said to Kira, moving over to the door. 

“You too. I’ll try and drop by when I can, just to give you a break from Derek’s eyebrows.” She winked again and Stiles heard Derek snort before he pushed the door open and preceded Stiles out of the store. 

Stiles figured the only reason he’d felt comfortable letting Stiles wander was because he knew Kira. It made him wonder about his relationship with Parrish, and even Deaton, considering he hadn’t wanted to leave him alone with them. 

Well, not so much Deaton. Stiles felt like Derek trusted that guy fairly well, and he’d mostly stayed for Stiles’ benefit. Parrish, though? Derek did _not_ like Parrish. 

They headed back to the car, Derek getting behind the wheel once Stiles was ready to go, and they headed off back towards the house. Stiles rolled over everything Kira had said in his head, wondering about Derek’s life before—well, before he’d officially met him, he supposed. 

Derek had implied a while back that his family was dead, but he still had a sister. And an uncle, apparently. He knew Derek couldn’t exactly _tell_ him that they weren’t all dead, but it made him wonder about the last two members of his family. Were they bound by the same oath as Derek and Laura had been? Did they know Derek was back? Did they even care that he was? 

Kira had said his sister missed him, but if she knew he was back, why hadn’t she come looking for him? Or maybe she _didn’t_ know and news was only now slowly spreading through town. After all, Stiles’ return was being treated as a bit of a secret, but anyone driving past the house and spotting a car would know what that meant. 

When they were back at the house, Derek dragged Stiles through all the rooms again, double checking that no one had broken in while they were out. Stiles hoped this wouldn’t be a routine thing, since he didn’t like being tugged all over the place like this. 

As soon as Derek was satisfied, he went back out to the car to bring in their items, pointing at Stiles in a “Stay here!” sort of way. Stiles obeyed, staying just inside the open front door, and took the groceries from Derek when he handed them over. He headed for the kitchen to put everything away, taking his time inspecting all the various items that were available. It occurred to him that they had electricity and running water and all that other fun stuff, which meant someone had been paying the bills, or at least _restarted_ paying the bills upon confirmation that Stiles was coming home. 

The ball of lead in the pit of his stomach related to his dependence on others was slowly but surely growing. He really didn’t want to turn around one day to find Derek demanding he do something because of everything the Werewolf had done for him. 

He doubted it, since Derek didn’t seem like the kind of guy to do that, but he also acknowledged he didn’t really _know_ him. 

Something he was going to try and change. As slow and frustrating as it was going to be. 

He got all the groceries put away and heard Derek making trips up and down the stairs after all the locks on the front door had been engaged. He was probably bringing their clothes up, and it made Stiles wonder where they were going to put them all. They couldn’t just share the same room indefinitely, right? Stiles really wanted his space. He may have lived in a comfortable prison his whole life, but he’d at least had his own room. 

When he was done with the groceries, he went back out to the front to see what was left. A few bags of random items—laundry detergent, dish soap, toilet paper—had been left by the door, but he was more interested in the books. 

Grabbing that bag, he realized he hadn’t bought any paper but was sure there had to be some around the house somewhere, along with pens. He brought that bag to the kitchen and dropped it on the table with a loud thud, then went to hunt down some paper and a pen. It took a conscious effort for him to walk into the study on the first floor, mostly because he imagined it was where his father spent all his time, and it still hurt to think about him. 

He tried to detach himself as much as possible while he rifled through the drawers, eventually finding a half-filled notebook and a stack of pens. He grabbed a few and headed back for the kitchen just as Derek was coming down the stairs. 

“Come on,” he said, motioning for Derek to follow. 

The Werewolf let out an aggrieved sigh, like Stiles was being difficult, but eventually followed him into the kitchen. Stiles took a seat at the table and patted the chair beside him. Derek cocked an eyebrow, but obediently sat, eying the notebook and pen warily while Stiles grabbed the one item he’d been looking for at the bookstore.

Derek’s expression didn’t change, still a little apprehensive, as Stiles set down the dictionary he’d bought, patting it once and grinning at Derek. The Werewolf just cocked an eyebrow again. 

“Look, if we’re gonna spend time together, we’re gonna have to get to know each other and as good as you are with the eyebrows, there’s only so much you can say with them.” He patted the dictionary again. “Deaton said you can point at things, like numbers. I figure you can point at words, too. The dictionary is easier to flip through than a random book, looking for the right word, so I figured this would be our own way of speaking to each other.” 

He couldn’t read the expression on Derek’s face. It looked a little bit like shock, his eyes darting back and forth between Stiles’ face and the dictionary, like he honestly couldn’t figure out who in their right mind would want to have a conversation with him when he couldn’t speak. 

Well, Stiles. That was who. Stiles wanted to have a conversation with him. 

“So,” Stiles said, uncapping the pen and flipping to a blank page in the notebook, watching Derek. “Tell me about yourself.” 

For a few seconds, Derek didn’t move. At first, Stiles thought maybe he couldn’t, that maybe this was part of the spell and too _close_ to real words for it to actually work. Before he could deflate and get disappointed though, Derek finally pulled the dictionary over, inched his chair a bit closer to Stiles’, and opened it. He flipped through to the back, looking for a word, and then stopped his finger on it, looking up at Stiles. 

Grinning at the fact that this was working, Stiles wrote the first word down. He’d figured out early on when he’d thought of this idea that he would forget the words Derek said if he didn’t write them down, eidetic memory or not, so he just waited patiently while Derek flipped back and forth through the dictionary until he closed it. 

Stiles chose to believe that meant it was the end of a sentence, but when he read over what he’d written down, he was underwhelmed. 

_we can not stay here everyone is looking for you we need to find a new place_

He looked up at Derek, giving him an annoyed look. “Really? I finally give you the ability to speak, and instead of giving me _anything_ at all about yourself, that’s the first thing you come up with?” 

Derek opened the dictionary back up and began flipping through it. Stiles sighed, but obediently wrote down every word once more until the book was closed. 

_I have to keep you safe we can talk about me after_

“Well, that was a waste,” Stiles muttered, tossing the pen down and getting to his feet. He ignored the scowl that earned him, unable to muster up the energy to care. “Did it occur to you that maybe I just wanted to take a break from all of this bullshit? I kind of had a shitty day. And a shitty week before that. And a shitty life before _that_. Would be nice to just sit down with someone for five minutes without it being about what I am.” 

Derek’s chair scraped against the floor when Stiles left the kitchen, the Werewolf clearly following him through the house. He was starting to really get annoyed about that. It wasn’t like Derek wouldn’t know if someone broke in, he was a _Werewolf_. They could hear and smell and see shit for miles.

He ignored him as best he could, climbing the stairs to the second floor and moving into the room that they’d been using the night before. Their clothes were still in bags on the floor, which suggested Derek really didn’t want to be sticking around, if he could help it. Great. 

Without a word, Stiles just fell face first on the bed, hoping to suffocate. At least suffocating was something to _do_ , and while he acknowledged he had books downstairs that he could be reading, he wasn’t in the mood. He just wanted to turn his brain off for a little bit and stop thinking about everything he’d been told that day. 

For an all-powerful being who’d had to have his powers suppressed for his entire life, he was surprised he wasn’t setting more things on fire or blowing them up. He was certainly annoyed enough to feel like he _should_ be setting things on fire. 

Derek stopped right beside the bed, and Stiles didn’t even need to _look_ at him to know he was scowling. He got a hard jab in the shoulder, Stiles batting at him impatiently with one hand. 

“Leave me alone,” he muttered. 

Apparently, Derek wasn’t interested in letting him wallow, because he just jabbed at him again, harder. Stiles just kept swatting at him, and figured eventually one of them would get violent and they could call it a day. He was banking on Derek losing his temper first.

As it stood, they didn’t get the chance to go that far, because a loud bang from downstairs had Stiles jerk up and Derek whipped around. 

Silence, and then the doorbell rang. 

Derek turned back to Stiles, jabbing emphatically at the bed, and then turned to head downstairs. 

Stiles wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t going to run headlong into danger, but he still crept out of the room and crouched by the top of the stairs, trying to get as low as possible to see the front door, but was sadly unsuccessful due to how the house was laid out. 

The alarm was beeping steadily faster, Stiles realizing that the door had likely moved enough to activate it, and if Derek didn’t put in the code soon, the whole place was going to explode into sound. 

Derek strode to the front door with purpose, a growl low in his throat, and the doorbell rang again, even though whoever was there could clearly see that Derek was coming. There was a short series of beeps, cutting off the alarm, but Derek moved back a few paces so that he was well away from the door. 

The doorbell rang again. And again. Then three times in succession. 

“Come now, is that any way to treat family?” 

Stiles frowned, and while he knew Derek would yell at him—in his own way, considering—he snuck slowly down the stairs. If Derek had reacted more aggressively, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to do this, but it looked like he was just standing in the entrance, and the more steps Stiles descended, the clearer it was that Derek was just annoyed and standing in front of the door with his arms crossed. 

“You know you’re not the only one who cares for his well-being. We are both Hales, Derek, he matters to me, too.” 

Stiles paused where he was, frowning. He could conclude that this was evidently Derek’s uncle, considering, but it called into question now why it was a twelve year old who’d become Alpha and been tasked with keeping Stiles safe.

And Jesus, every time he remembered that, it made bile rise in his throat. How much of their lives Laura and Derek had lost protecting him. Had _they_ even gone to school? Or was that something only Stiles was privy to? It sounded insane but, honestly, this entire _situation_ was insane. 

“I have something for you, if that changes anything. Deaton said you were back, and we can’t very well have you staying here now, can we?” 

That got Derek’s attention, if the shift in body weight was anything to go by, but he still didn’t open the door. Stiles was really starting to wonder if Derek was hogging him, considering he didn’t want him near virtually _anyone_ , not even his own family. Which was weird, if they were bound by the same oath. 

He crept down another few steps until he could _just_ see out the window beside the door, where Derek’s uncle was standing out on the porch. Stiles realized the bang had likely been his attempt to open the door since the lock that connected to the outside was unlocked. The other three that could only be accessed from the inside were still bolted shut, and his resulting attempt at forcing the door open had caused the loud bang. 

Derek’s uncle looked surprisingly similar to Derek, and at the same time not at all. He had a neatly manicured beard, light brown hair, and blue eyes. They shared the same bone structure, and looked to be about the same height. His uncle was a touch wider than Derek himself was, but he also appeared to be quite a bit older, and Stiles figured the older the Werewolf, the stronger they were. 

He didn’t think he’d made any noise coming down the stairs, but Derek’s uncle had evidently spotted him behind Derek because his eyes shifted to lock onto Stiles and he offered him a smile that was one part pleased and two parts malicious. It was a weird expression. 

“You must be Stiles,” he said pleasantly. 

Derek whipped around at that, eyes flashing red and a growl rising up his throat. He gave Stiles an annoyed look and he just shrugged expansively. 

“What? You made it pretty clear he wasn’t a threat.” 

Derek gritted his teeth and pointed emphatically back towards the stairs, a silent order for him to get back upstairs. Stiles just stared at him and crossed his arms over his chest. If Derek was going to be an asshole, well, two could play at that game. Sure, if his life was truly in jeopardy, he’d let Derek manhandle him around and order him wherever he wanted. But he clearly _wasn’t_ in danger right then, and he was kind of curious to know more about Derek from someone who obviously knew him. 

If Derek wasn’t going to share insights about himself, Stiles would get them wherever he could. 

“Yes, it’s rather unpleasant when people don’t listen to you when you’re trying to protect them, isn’t it, Derek?” his uncle asked. His tone was light, but his words cut deep, if Derek’s wince before he turned back to the man was anything to go by. The man on the other side of the door either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “Nice to see you getting that end of the stick, so you can understand how I felt all those years.” 

Stiles moved forward, coming up beside Derek, who shot one hand out to keep him back from the door. Stiles gave him an annoyed look.

“What? He’s your uncle, isn’t he? A Hale? What’s the problem?” 

“Derek has always been very territorial of you,” the man said, eying his nephew. “Something about righting a wrong. Did you know you almost died when you were five?” 

Derek’s head shot back to his uncle then and he bared his teeth. The other Werewolf just looked amused. 

“Would you like to let me in, or shall I regale the Spark with stories from the porch? Mind you, this is a rather inconvenient location overall.” He turned, as if looking around. “You do realize the first place anyone will think to look for him is here, do you not? Perhaps a little bit of forethought, Derek, what are you, an amateur?” 

Derek growled again and Stiles rolled his eyes, pulling free and moving to the door. Derek went to grab at him again but Stiles just turned to him and he didn’t know what expression he sported, but the Werewolf’s head snapped back, as if Stiles had said something particularly vicious. 

Whatever, at least he could open the fucking door. 

Stiles unlocked all the different deadbolts and pulled the door open. The man on the other side smiled pleasantly and stepped into the house. He shut the door behind him and proceeded to lock all four locks again, as if being just as paranoid as Derek, but less suffocating. 

Or at least, Stiles _hoped_ he was less suffocating. 

He turned to Stiles then, smiling and holding out one hand. “Peter Hale.” 

“Stiles. Stilinski,” he added in afterthought. He figured everyone knew who he was, no point in the full name, but it was still polite, he supposed. 

“Yes, you certainly are, aren’t you?” Peter gave him a very slow once-over that had his skin crawling, but Stiles felt that was more because everyone felt like a threat now as opposed to Peter being purposefully threatening. Though he still didn’t appreciate it. 

Derek grabbed at Stiles’ upper arm and wrenched him away from his uncle. “Ow! _Ow_! Jesus,” Stiles snapped, slapping at Derek with his free hand until he let go. “God. I’m one-hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bones, can you maybe not?” 

He rolled up his sleeve to check his arm, fully expecting to see large bruises on his skin. So far there was nothing, but it was still early enough in the day and Derek seemed rather fond of his right arm. He was sure he would find inkspots in the shape of fingerprints on his skin soon enough. 

“Fascinating as this lover’s quarrel is,” Peter said, which earned him a disgusted look from Derek and an insulted one from Stiles, “perhaps we should get started on discussing ways to keep the Spark safe, hm?” 

Peter patted his nephew’s shoulder on his way past him towards the kitchen, and Stiles eyed his guard dog briefly before shrugging and following. He heard Derek give out a tremendous sigh behind him before he followed as well.

When Stiles entered the kitchen, Peter was rooting through all the cupboards. He turned to Stiles when the teen sat at the kitchen table. 

“Coffee?” 

“I don’t think we grabbed any,” Stiles admitted. 

“Shame.” Peter shut the cabinets and rooted through the fridge instead, coming back with a bottle of Coke in time for Derek to appear in the doorway, looking put out and leaning sideways against the jamb, arms crossed. “How has travelling been with my nephew? Exciting?” 

“Quiet,” Stiles countered. That earned him a small scowl from Derek, but he ignored him. “You said I almost died?” 

“Mm,” Peter acknowledged, taking a sip of the Coke and licking his lips. He read the label, as if double checking what he’d literally just put into his mouth, and took another sip. 

Stiles already knew this guy was going to be the bane of his existence. That, or highly entertaining, it was a fine line. 

“You gonna elaborate?” 

“If I must.” Peter made it sound like a chore, despite the fact that _he_ was the one to bring it up. He moved to the table and took a seat across from Stiles. He eyed the dictionary and notebook briefly, but Stiles just moved them away so he couldn’t get a clear look at what they’d been doing and Peter focussed on him once more. “You see, little Spark, I’m the black sheep of the family.”

“Look more like a wolf to me.”

“Oh,” Peter said, surprised delight on his features before he turned around to look at his nephew. “I like this one.” 

Derek rolled his eyes, clearly wishing the door had remained shut. 

Peter turned back to Stiles and smirked. “I am what one might call a deserter. When your mother came to town, and my sister approached her, I thought to myself, ‘do I want to die for some woman I don’t know because of idiotic ancestors who couldn’t do what needed to be done? No. No I do not.’ And so when your mother came to town, I promptly left it.” 

Stiles remembered what Deaton had said. About how Derek and Laura didn’t _have_ to protect him, that they _could_ , potentially, break off the arrangement and go about their lives. 

Peter was watching him, and he smiled while tapping at his lips, then pointed at Stiles. “See, that’s interesting.” 

“What is?” Stiles asked. 

“You don’t seem bothered to know you may not have lost your mother if only I’d stuck around.” 

“It’s not my place to tell one person to give their life for another,” Stiles informed him, slouching in his seat. “Are we going to get to the point soon?”

“Interesting.” Peter turned back to his nephew, grinning now. “I _really_ like this one.” 

Derek just gave him an unimpressed look, still leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. He seemed more annoyed at his uncle’s presence than anything else, and Stiles figured he just didn’t like him much. Considering the way he was telling this story, Stiles couldn’t blame him. 

“Anyway,” Peter continued, turning back to Stiles, “as you undoubtedly know, people came, people died, your father ran, and he took my dear niece and nephew with him. For a time, at any rate. I, of course, was tasked with taking care of Cora, Derek’s younger sister. She was only four, the same age as you, not exactly someone to let loose on her own. As a deserter, it meant I would feel the pull to protect you the least, so I was the obvious choice.”

Stiles noted that Peter enjoyed the sound of his own voice. This story could’ve been over with in less than a minute, but he was dragging it out. Stiles was actually starting to miss the quiet, he thought. But then—probably not. He’d never been very good with quiet, he just wasn’t sure how much he liked this Peter dude. 

“When you were five, I received a rather distressed call from my niece. Derek had lost himself, you see. One of the agents with your father panicked when you did something or another, nevermind it wasn’t magical given your restrictor,” his eyes lowered to Stiles’ wrist quickly, and then back up, “and in his fear, he smacked you.” 

“I didn’t realize I was that fragile,” Stiles said dryly. 

“No,” Peter said, amused, “but having your head hit the edge of a marble counter top and falling off the high stool you were on to the ground likely wasn’t helpful. As I understand it, there was quite a bit of blood.” 

Stiles didn’t remember that. He had a pretty good memory, but he didn’t have it back that far. He always thought it was around five and younger that he couldn’t recall, so if he’d been five when this happened, that was about right. Evidently he hadn’t died, because he was now sitting across from Derek’s creepy uncle, but details. 

“Derek attacked the agent, who at the time, was the only person in the house with you. Laura was outside running the perimeter, and your father was at the store with another agent. Instead of checking on you, Derek tore at the agent for hurting you. Had Laura not heard him snarling and returned, it is entirely likely you would have died, because Derek was more focussed on attacking someone else rather than tending to you.” 

“You need to lose about a fifth of your blood volume before there’s any concerns of passing out, let alone dying. I’m pretty sure a forehead gash wasn’t going to kill me,” Stiles informed him. 

Sure, the fall might have caused a lot of damage, and he was positive there was a lot of blood given head wounds tended to bleed a lot, but unless his skull had cracked right open—which he felt he would’ve been told about, or at least would’ve had a scar—he was probably fine. 

Peter let out a small laugh at that, seeming positively _tickled_ over this rare, special Supernatural being sitting across from him. “Such little regard for your own life.” 

“It’s not about not having any regard for my own life. This happened in the past.” Stiles motioned himself. “I’m not dead, so clearly it’s a non-issue.” His eyes skirted to Derek, who was watching him intently. “I’m guessing that’s when Derek got sent to live with you?” 

“Indeed. Laura said he wasn’t ready, so she sent him back to me. I’m rather fond of my nephew, so it wasn’t any great hardship. He and Cora always spoke about their duty in protecting you, but for the most part, I was able to rein them in. Until—well, we don’t talk about that, do we?” 

Peter took another sip of his Coke, but Stiles didn’t miss the way his expression tightened. He was obviously talking about Derek running off on his own and getting caught by Kate. And then losing his voice. Stiles had to wonder how much Peter blamed himself for what had happened. He wondered if Peter had been the one to find him, how much of a role he’d had in getting him out. 

He wondered who Cora had stayed with during that period, how long it had taken Derek to recover after what he’d been through. If he’d even recovered at all. 

“So you see,” Peter said, setting the bottle down and slowly re-capping it, eyes on what he was doing, “Derek almost got you killed once. He isn’t going to let it happen again. Everyone is a threat, including me.” 

“Deserter, I remember,” Stiles said. 

“Oh, that was then,” Peter informed him, waving one hand dismissively. “Yes, breaking the oath was rather painful, took me years to feel normal. I had to break it all over again once you were born. A pain, really.”

“Sorry to be such an inconvenience,” Stiles said dryly. 

Peter just smirked at him. “Nevertheless, after my nephew’s—unfortunate circumstances, I realized the only way to keep what was left of my family safe was to keep you safe. So I reinstated the bond.” 

“That’s possible?”

“Yes, quite. Inconvenient, perhaps, but possible. As such, Derek is going to have to learn how to share. Between myself and Cora, not to mention the Order, there are enough people to keep you safe without him shadowing your every step.” Peter turned to his nephew again. “What’s next, showering with him?” 

Derek’s eyes shot to Stiles’, the two of them staring at one another for a long moment. Stiles _could_ be a dick and tell Peter about how they basically _were_ showering together, but he didn’t want to poke the bear—or Werewolf, in this case—so he chose silence. Silence was safer, considering he had to _sleep_ with said bear later. 

He didn’t want to give Derek a reason to purposefully steal the covers. 

Peter glanced between them at the look they shared, but didn’t comment on it. Probably because he wasn’t _entirely_ sure he was reading them right. He _did_ look amused though, and he opened his Coke once more before glancing at the bag of books, tugging it closer and beginning to rifle through it. Stiles wondered if he’d actually come by for a reason or if he was like everyone else and wanted to get a look at the famous Spark. 

Stiles didn’t feel very special, just a bit like a bug under a microscope. He’d rather be doing homework, honestly. 

“I see you’re interested in your training, but I have much better books than this.” 

It took a few seconds for Stiles to realize Peter was speaking to him and he blinked. “What?” 

Peter pulled out one of the books from the bag and Stiles realized it was one of the ones Derek must’ve gotten. He hadn’t really looked at the titles, but his stomach sank when he saw what Peter was holding up. 

It was a guide to spellcasting. He could imagine all the books Derek had gathered related to his abilities, in some form. If they didn’t have the specific spellcaster available for every different type in town, it made sense he’d have to learn from books. 

Not that he was particularly interested in learning, though not going all sparky and shadowy at random intervals would be pretty great. 

Derek let out a loud, annoyed huff behind his uncle and Peter turned to him, still holding up the book. 

“Yes, nephew, I know you’re eager to get back to hovering in peace, but as I said, this is not the place for you. I took the liberty of buying a new property. Remote, spacious, in a safe area. It borders the Hale land as well as the Order stronghold, so it is ideally placed. Well inside the city limits so no one can sneak in quickly and back out again, easily defendable. And to give him a bit more colour, it thankfully also has a rather large terrace.” He turned back to Stiles. “You are extremely pale, is that a Spark thing?” 

“I think it’s more of a prison thing,” Stiles grunted. 

“Well, we’ll have to change that, you look like you’re trying to win a record for palest skin on the continent.” Peter slapped one hand on the table and stood, then turned to Derek. “By the way, Cora’s waiting for you to drop in. Perhaps you should go and visit her while I get the Spark settled.” 

Stiles didn’t like how Peter kept referring to him as ‘the Spark.’ It made him feel like an object, as opposed to a human being. He wondered if that was how they all viewed him. He wasn’t really a person, just a _thing_ to be kept safe, to ensure he didn’t fall into the wrong hands. To make sure the countless people who’d died so far hadn’t died in vain. 

Peter stood then, moving towards the fridge and pulling it open to inspect what was inside. Stiles wasn’t sure what he was doing, but after a moment, he checked the cupboards, only sparing a brief glance at the ones with dishes before spending longer on the ones with food. 

“Perhaps more bodies would be beneficial, yes?” Peter turned and headed out of the kitchen past Derek, patting his shoulder. “Come, nephew. I’m a busy man, I have a job, you know. Had to book a day off for this. Let’s start while I call in help. You can see Cora once we’ve begun to move him. Quickly, if you would, to avoid any unwanted guests.” 

Derek looked uncomfortable, but Stiles didn’t know if it was about letting him out of his sight, or seeing his sister. Really, he didn’t know why seeing his younger sister would make him uncomfortable. 

At least Derek still _had_ family. 

Stiles had no one. Grandparents he’d never met—they’d died before he was born on his mother’s side, and his father’s side was estranged—and parents who’d both died protecting him. He had nothing, and no one, and Derek had... 

Well, he had an uncle who cared enough about him to look ashamed at what had happened to Derek under his watch, and a sister who wanted to see him despite Derek’s reservations. He couldn’t fathom why he was hesitating like he was, Stiles would _kill_ to have family still alive right now. 

Even one person. Just one. 

Derek tilted his head when the front door slammed shut, then glanced over at Stiles. He played with the skin around his right thumbnail, eyes on Derek, trying to gage where his mind was at. 

“You trust him, right?” Stiles asked quietly. He knew Werewolves had excellent hearing, but he doubted Peter could hear him from the other end of the property, especially since he’d exited the house. 

With a sigh, Derek raked one hand through his hair, then rubbed at his face. He turned silently and headed for the stairs. Stiles just sat in the kitchen, unsure of what to do. He eyed one of the books Peter had picked up, made a face, then pulled it closer and flipped it to the first page. 

He wasn’t sure what was going on, so he didn’t know what he should be doing. He kind of wanted to go back to wallowing in his room, but Derek was banging around upstairs and he seemed to be in a mood now, so he figured sitting alone in the kitchen reading a book about magic was the better option. 

He’d been there for close to fifteen minutes before the front door opened again. He didn’t look up, expecting it to be Peter coming back inside, and then startled horribly at an unfamiliar voice.

“Uh... Was he still supposed to be here?” 

Stiles jerked out of his chair, raising both fists in a ridiculous display of defence. There were two men standing in the kitchen doorway, one of them broad and dark-skinned, the other tall and lanky with elfish features. Both of them stood frozen, staring at him, and predictably, there was a roar from upstairs. 

“Oh great,” the elf muttered, backing away from the kitchen door. He was the one who’d originally spoken, based on his voice. “Here we go.” 

The other man also backed away, but his eyes were still fixed on Stiles. 

There was a loud thump, like Derek had jumped from the second level again, and he came barrelling towards the kitchen. His furious expression shifted into one less hostile when he saw who was there, but he still didn’t look happy. 

“Derek! Hey! Long time no see! Love the beard, makes you look extra manly.” The elf actually managed to tug Derek into a hug, despite how much he _clearly_ didn’t appreciate it. 

Stiles watched from his spot on the other side of the kitchen table, fists still raised stupidly. The other man who was with the elf was still eying him warily, like the idea of having Stiles anywhere close to him was disconcerting. Stiles wondered if it was about Derek’s reaction, or Stiles himself. 

When the elf got elbowed hard in the ribs so that Derek could get free, the other man finally turned away from Stiles and patted Derek’s shoulder once with easy familiarity. 

“Derek, it’s good to see you. Glad you made it back safely.” His voice was low, much lower than Stiles was expecting, but friendly enough. 

Derek just shrugged, punching lightly at the man’s shoulder, then shifted his gaze to Stiles. The other two followed, all three staring at him. 

“Yeah, Peter didn’t say he’d still be here,” the elf said nervously. “He called us to help move some stuff to the loft, but we figured he was leaving with him. He’d just pulled out when we showed up.” 

Derek let out an angry huff at that, turning to glare at the door, as if his uncle were still there. Stiles finally managed to put his fists down, though the movement had the two unknown men focussing all their attention on him again. 

He was _seriously_ getting tired of people staring at him.

“Take a fucking picture,” he insisted, annoyed, and fell back into his chair, tugging the book back over. If Derek didn’t deem them a threat, then they were probably harmless. 

He didn’t look up, but could see Derek motioning him out of the corner of his eye. The larger man stepped forward and his hand appeared right in front of Stiles. He looked up at him, the other across the table from him, hand extended. 

“Vernon Boyd.” 

Stiles kind of wanted to be a brat and look back down at his book, but he reluctantly put the child in him away and shook the guy’s hand. “Stiles.” 

“Good to meet you.” 

“I’m Isaac!” The elf came up behind his friend, grinning impishly. “Isaac Lahey. You can actually call me Isaac, though. Try calling him _Vernon_ and you’ll find your face in a wall.” 

“Your face is the only one I’d smash into a wall,” Boyd informed him easily. He watched Stiles for a moment longer before turning to head for the cabinets, opening them all up and inspecting the contents. “Peter got a lot for the loft, but not everything. We should be able to grab a few things from here to compensate for what’s missing. Wanna help Isaac with one of the couches?” 

“Sure.” Stiles started to get to his feet, but the look he got from Derek made it clear he thought he was an idiot. 

“I was talking to Derek,” Boyd said, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles. “You should probably stay out of sight as much as possible.” 

“Because two dudes carrying a couch out of the house isn’t conspicuous at _all_ ,” Stiles said dryly, falling back into his seat. 

“Could be robbing the place,” Isaac mused. “You don’t know that.” 

Derek rolled his eyes and smacked at Isaac, then jerked his chin towards the living room. Isaac grinned at Stiles before following obediently, the two of them out of sight relatively quickly. Stiles turned his attention to Boyd instead, watching him begin to take down some of the dishes, setting them up in neat little stacks on the counter. 

Peter returned almost ten minutes later, and he did so with a cup of coffee. He proclaimed it was criminal that Stiles and Derek hadn’t thought to buy any, and then promptly grabbed hold of Stiles and dragged him out of the house, calling back to Derek that he was kidnapping him until his nephew went to visit his sister. 

Derek was _not_ happy about that. 

And Stiles _still_ wasn’t sure if it was about him or his sister. 

* * *

Peter Hale was a very interesting individual, Stiles discovered. He hovered almost as much as Derek did when they weren’t in the safety of a home, and was just a generally chatty person. As Stiles had already surmised, he definitely liked the sound of his own voice. But, at any rate, he was interesting. 

He didn’t really talk about anything Stiles cared about, but in way he thought that might’ve been intentional. Peter seemed like the kind of person who liked having people owe him favours, and every time he brought something up he thought might be of even the slightest interest to Stiles, and Stiles _didn’t_ press for more information, he smiled privately to himself and it somehow seemed to raise his opinion of Stiles. 

Hilariously, the first place Peter brought him to was the school, which would’ve been totally weird if not for the fact that it wasn’t actually the school they were going to. Peter was holding Stiles’ arm while they walked across the empty lot, the Werewolf’s head on a swivel despite there being nobody present given summer had started—again, thanks Deucalion for not letting Stiles graduate—and the sun had begun to set.

When they reached the large sign for the school, Stiles wondered if maybe Peter was crazy and he should be running away screaming, but the man just popped out his claws—which was concerning for all of two seconds—and then slotted them somewhere Stiles didn’t see. He jerked back when the whole sign began to move, staring at the stairs leading down into darkness. 

“Yeah, I’m not going in there with you,” Stiles informed Peter when he straightened. 

“Scared of the dark?” Peter teased, moving back around to stand beside Stiles. 

“No, more getting murdered in it.”

“Do you honestly think my nephew would’ve let me take you if I was going to kill you?” Peter grabbed the back of his neck, not hard, but firm. “Let’s go.” 

Stiles was _unhappy_. Extremely unhappy. But he forced himself to move forward anyway, the two of them slowly making their way down the dark, narrow steps. Stiles stumbled a few times, but Peter’s grip on the back of his neck kept him on his feet until he went down one more step and found there weren’t any more. When he was on solid ground again, Peter released him and disappeared from his side. 

It was surprising how little light filtered down into the area, and Stiles didn’t move until the loud hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He hadn’t been out of the light long enough for it to affect his eyes too much, so he waited for them to adjust to the contrast and looked around, moving forward slowly and eying everything with interest. 

There were two safes across the room, one imbedded in the wall and one beside it, shoved right up against the concrete. There were shelves and shelves of unknown items, some old, some newer. A few random jars of items Stiles didn’t want to think about, and then a mountain of books. He was quite certain he’d never seen that many books outside of a store before, because the collection was daunting. 

There were so many of them that two entire walls of shelves were jam-packed floor to ceiling, and it _still_ wasn’t enough to contain them all, a giant pile of them slowly rising on the floor in the same area. 

“I keep meaning to clean this place up,” Peter said, crouching down by the shelves and running his finger along the spines there, “but, well,” he turned to Stiles and smiled, “I’m lazy.” 

“What are we doing here?” 

“Finding you better reading material than that drivel my nephew bought for you,” Peter said, still running his finger along the spines. He finally pulled one out, opened it as if to check the title properly, and snapped it shut. Stiles winced when dust flew up from it and Peter let out a small cough, waving one hand in front of his face.

Well, he wasn’t wrong about the place not being clean. 

Stiles looked around and moved up along one of the shelves of books, reading the spines. A lot of them were in Latin and he hoped whatever books Peter pulled out weren’t in that same language. Stiles was sure he could learn it, but not fast enough to be able to decipher books like this. Also, he really didn’t want to learn Latin, so there was that, too. 

He pulled a book off the shelf at random, flipping it open and leafing through the pages absently. 

“For a Werewolf, you have a lot of books on magic,” he murmured quietly, cocking an eyebrow at a particularly nasty picture of someone with melting skin. He was probably going to give that spell a pass. 

“Our family collected them for generations to help yours,” Peter said easily. “It is what we do, after all. Protect you and yours.” 

“Unless it’s inconvenient,” he reminded Peter, still leafing through the same book. 

“I thought it wasn’t your place to tell one person to give their life for another,” Peter argued, turning to look at him. 

“It’s not, but doesn’t change the fact that you broke an oath.” He snapped the book shut and put it back, turning to Peter and shrugging. “I don’t blame you for it, just stating a fact. You make it sound like all of this is for my benefit when you already flat-out admitted you’re only here for Derek and Cora.”

“Yes, well, I like to learn how valuable something is before I throw it away.”

“I’m not a thing,” Stiles insisted, frustrated. “I’m not a weapon, I’m not a possession, I’m not something you can _own_. I’m an actual living, breathing person.” 

“Only as long as you allow yourself to be protected,” Peter countered. He offered Stiles a rather unfriendly smile before standing, slapping another book on top of his pile. “That’s enough for now, I think. I doubt you’ll have much progress in the coming weeks, but we’ll see how you fare.” 

He moved back towards the entrance and Stiles followed him. When the lights were flicked off, he paused, hesitating briefly since he didn’t want to walk into any shelves of jars. He flinched when Peter’s hand suddenly found the back of his neck and guided him back towards the stairs. They climbed them slowly, and when they got closer to the top, Peter moved around Stiles to exit first, looking around before allowing him to follow. 

They were back in the car relatively quickly and heading out once more. Peter was humming along to the radio like he didn’t have a care in the world, but Stiles didn’t miss the way his hands tightened every time a car came just a _little_ too close to theirs. He hoped this place Peter had gotten for him and Derek was nice, since he anticipated being locked up for an extended period of time.

Similarly, he knew that wasn’t a life he wanted for himself. He didn’t want to spend forever locked up and afraid of the outside world. Not that he was necessarily afraid, but he definitely didn’t know that he’d ever trust anyone else ever again. He barely trusted Derek, and the guy had almost died for him multiple times since they’d met. Granted, one of those times was Stiles’ fault, what with crashing his car and all, but still! 

They drove for a good twenty minutes, passing through some trees until Peter finally stopped the car outside an old, decrepit-looking abandoned train station. 

“You take me to the nicest places,” Stiles said dryly. 

Peter barked out a laugh before he climbed out. Stiles sighed and did the same, looking up at the building apprehensively while he shut the door. He wasn’t sure what they were doing here, and wondered if it was just another place to hide more books. But then, Peter had already said that they had enough, so that seemed unlikely. 

He flinched when Peter was beside him once more, hand on the back of his neck. Stiles kind of hated it, it reminded him of his father, and he didn’t want to think about him right now. He didn’t want to have a meltdown in the middle of the large lot he was in with Peter staring at him dispassionately. 

“On we go,” Peter said, giving him a gentle nudge so he’d walk forward. 

They moved together towards the building, Stiles really wondering if Peter wasn’t about to cut his losses and exchange him for a hefty sum of money. When they reached a door, Peter pulled out some keys and proceeded to methodically unlock all five locks. 

Great, it had as many locks as the old place, that was terrific. Stiles didn’t know why they thought locks were going to stop bad people from getting in. For one thing, Stiles knew how to pick locks long before he found out he was magic. For another, most Supernatural creatures had superstrength. They could just blow on the fucking door and it’d open, locks weren’t going to change anything. 

He didn’t mention it, just let Peter push him lightly into the building. He turned to look out towards the bottom level, finding it mostly gutted with a few low-hanging lights that were missing bulbs and two decommissioned train cars. One was lying flat on its side, and the other was raised on some cinder blocks. 

“I thought this might be a good place for you to practice your magic,” Peter said after having turned to lock the door again. “This way, little Spark.” 

“Stop calling me that,” he insisted, somewhat annoyed. 

Peter didn’t answer him and practically pushed him up a set of stairs against the wall. They had to climb almost three stories before the large open space with the trains was finally out of sight, and when they rounded the last bend, they stepped out onto a landing with only a large sliding metal door present. Peter released Stiles then and moved forward to unlock it. Then, he slid it wide open. 

“Oh,” was all Stiles managed to get out. 

He hadn’t known what to expect when they’d walked into the building, but he’d assumed it was just to practice his magic, like Peter had said. But the second he’d opened the sliding door, it became exceptionally clear that the area downstairs was just a bonus, because the door had opened onto a large living room.

It already had the couch from his house in it. 

“Oh?” Peter asked, sounding amused. “It wasn’t easy finding a place at the last minute that was both defendable _and_ close to the Hale pack and the Order both. It even has the added bonus of space downstairs for your magic.” 

“Were you expecting a parade?” Stiles asked dryly, not liking the reminder that these things were being done _for_ him because he lacked the funds. 

“A little confetti can go a long way,” Peter said brightly, motioning for Stiles to enter. 

He wasn’t happy about it, but he did so anyway, somewhat reluctantly. It wasn’t that the place was _bad_ or anything, it was just—secluded. He wasn’t sure how he felt being so far away from everything. 

Still, he had to admit, the place was nice in a rustic kind of way. And Peter had obviously taken great care in ensuring they would have what they needed barring a few items he’d taken from the Stilinski house. Stiles actually wondered if maybe that had been intentional, like he was attempting to give him a bit of old and new stuff together to make the place feel more like home.

He needn’t have bothered, Stiles didn’t remember living in the large house they’d spent the night in, so nothing was familiar or comforting. 

He moved slowly through the space, the entire left half of the large loft devoted to entertainment. There was the couch, of course, along with a coffee table, two bean-bag chairs, a television stand which housed a new-looking flat-screen, a Blu-Ray player, and various movies as well as a cable box. There was also a desk tucked away in the corner with a laptop on it, and a bookshelf against the far wall that already had a few books in it. Stiles recognized them as the ones he’d grabbed during their outing. Even the dictionary was there. 

He also didn’t miss that some of the photos from his home had been brought over, which he appreciated since he no longer had the ones he’d brought around with him for the entirety of his life. They were on top of the shelf, but Stiles thought he might move them somewhere else. Maybe the desk, he wasn’t sure yet. 

There was a glass door near the far end of the entertainment side that led out onto the terrace Peter had been talking about. Most of the back end of the loft was just a huge wall of windows, but the terrace seemed to wrap around the front of the building right in front of them. It was going to get really hot if the sun faced them year round with all those windows. 

The right half of the loft was divided into two areas, one being a small dining area with a table for four, and the other half behind a wall that had to be the kitchen. Stiles went to inspect it just for something to do, opening and closing the cabinets and seeing a mix and match of dishes and various cooking appliances. The food he and Derek had bought was also there, and he tried not to be too pleased at the dishwasher, since he could tell it was brand new and Stiles _hated_ doing dishes. All the appliances in the kitchen looked new, but still—dishwasher. Yes. 

He exited the kitchen and moved across the area towards the set of spiral metal stairs leading upwards. He stopped halfway to them to poke his head into the small bathroom tucked away a little bit out of sight. It was the usual bachelor’s bathroom, with a stall shower similar to the one from his house the night before, along with a toilet and sink. Not much counter space, but it had a medicine cabinet, so he’d make do. 

Just when he’d turned to leave, he paused when he noticed there were two bottles of the same shampoo in the shower. It wasn’t the brand he preferred, though he hadn’t bought any at Walmart since the house already had some, and it suddenly occurred to him that... maybe it wasn’t Deaton who’d stocked the house before their arrival. Maybe it wasn’t Deaton who’d turned the electricity back on and gotten the water running and bought a few things here and there to get the place livable for when he and Derek arrived. 

“Something of interest in the bathroom?” Peter asked from right behind him. 

Stiles jumped and whipped around, then pushed at Peter’s chest to get him out of his immediate space. If nothing else, at least this guy honestly cared for his nephew, because he hadn’t wanted him to arrive to nothing last night. 

And Jesus, had it only been last night? Stiles was fucking exhausted, he wanted this day to end, already. 

“Laundry?” he asked. 

Peter turned and walked a few paces towards a storage cupboard. When he pulled it open, Stiles realized it wasn’t actually a cupboard since it housed a stacked washer/dryer set. They also looked brand new, and he was silently calculating the cost of everything in his head since he was going to have to pay for all of this eventually.

When he wasn’t being hunted and could actually graduate high school. Yes, he was still super bitter about that and wondered if there was a way for him to just take the final exam at Beacon Hills high school so he could at _least_ get a diploma. 

Shrugging the annoyance off, he went to the stairs next and started the slow climb upwards. It didn’t feel particularly sturdy, but Peter didn’t seem concerned as he followed him up so Stiles figured he’d get used to it eventually. 

The top floor was completely open with a tall ledge overlooking the living room complete with a railing. He glanced down over it, but figured the angle made it so no one could see up into the bedroom. The entire second floor was just the bedroom, complete with closet in the far corner, a large dresser, a slightly smaller dresser, two night stands with a lamp apiece and a queen-sized bed. It was already made up with sheets and covers and everything. 

“So I’m staying here alone, then?” Stiles asked, eying the bed somewhat nervously. He didn’t really want to live alone above a likely haunted train station, though he’d admit that not having someone following him around incessantly would be nice. 

The bark of laughter Peter let out was loud and kind of dog-like, Stiles turning to him startled. 

“You’re hilarious, you should be a comedian.” He pretended to wipe tears from his eyes and then his features smoothed out instantly. “No. You’re staying here with Derek.” 

“There’s only one bed,” he said, motioning it. 

“And that’s a problem because?” Peter raised his eyebrows. 

Stiles turned back to the bed, and figured it wasn’t _really_ a problem. Derek had been fine the night before, Stiles just didn’t want to accidentally kick him in his sleep and have a half-conscious Werewolf trying to bite at his throat because he was mistaking the accidental kick for a threat. 

Still... 

“Couldn’t have gotten two twins?” 

“Too expensive,” Peter argued, waving one hand dismissively. “You’ll survive. It’ll be like a permanent sleep-over. Don’t worry, he only snores after sex.” 

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in and when they did, Stiles turned to Peter, horrendously confused. “How could-how could you _possibly_ know that?” 

“He lived with me,” Peter insisted dryly. “And he was a teenager once. And I’m a Werewolf. What, did you think watching you meant he was celibate his entire life?” 

“No, but—” 

“He was extremely sexually active, almost unhealthily actually. I think it was his way of letting off steam when he couldn’t be around you to protect you. I would imagine given his time with Kate, he likely isn’t fond of sex anymore, not that he’s said as much. Or implied as much. But well, doesn’t take a genius.” Peter let out a small huff of a sigh, then motioned the stairs. “Let’s get some food into you, see if we can’t up that one-hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bone.” 

Stiles didn’t say anything, he just followed Peter downstairs. He was surprised when they walked into the kitchen again and he checked the time, noting it was almost nine at night. He supposed it made sense, given the sun was usually up for longer during the summer, but it also explained why he was so fucking tired. 

“Why don’t you put the books away and get yourself organized at the desk?” Peter asked while he started opening cupboard to grab some items. “I don’t need any help with dinner.” 

“Sure,” Stiles said slowly, eying him and hoping he wasn’t about to drug his food. Then again, if Peter was going to betray him and send him off to a bad guy, he’d have done it by now. 

Stiles headed back out into the living room area, picked up the books Peter had set down on the dining table, and went to add them to the shelf. He had to stand on his toes to reach the picture frames on top of the shelves and he put them on the edge of the desk. It was only two of them, one being a family photo he hadn’t noticed the night before, and the other being the wedding photo he’d seen on the mantle. 

His heart clenched in his chest at the sight of his father and he forced his gaze away. Which was easier than anticipated since he had a brand new laptop in front of him. It was a Mac, which he wasn’t necessarily happy about, but he wasn’t going to be picky about it and he booted it up. 

That was when he noticed what he’d originally thought was a mouse was actually a box. He frowned and picked it up, flipping it over. 

It was an Iphone. 

He pulled it out of the box and noticed it was already out of the packaging with a film over the screen to protect it. There was no case for it, but he figured that wasn’t a big deal. When he booted it up, it opened on a home screen without prompting him to do any of the usual new phone stuff. He frowned and figured it was already set up for him. 

When he scrolled to the contacts, he saw a large list of names, and honestly wasn’t sure if this was a new phone for him, or someone’s existing phone. It _looked_ new, and he supposed it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that Peter had just input as many numbers into the phone as he could. 

Instead of being alphabetized, Peter had put them in with numbers prefacing them so they would go down in a specific order. Stiles didn’t mind, though it took him clicking on one of them to figure out what the coding was beside them all.

Every contact started with a number, and then two letters, and then a person’s first name. 

Derek’s was at the top under 01 - HP - Derek. Peter was second, Cora was third, and then it went down a few others names, only some of which he recognized. Parrish, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Lydia, Scott, Liam. The next set of numbers reset at 01 but the letters were different. Deaton was the first one, and it came up as 01 - TO - Deaton. 

After clicking on one of the contacts, Stiles realized HP meant ‘Hale Pack,’ and ascertained that TO meant ‘The Order’ without having to actually check. He didn’t recognize basically any of the names under that header, but didn’t worry about it too much. He figured it was more of an ‘in case of emergency’ sort of deal. 

He got distracted going through the phone for a little while, deciding it was a brand new phone given it was in pristine condition and had virtually nothing on it. He was tempted to download some of his preferred apps, but figured he shouldn’t do that just yet, especially since he didn’t know if they had internet. 

When he focussed on the computer once more, he realized that there _was_ , in fact, internet. Which was nice, because internet was important for his sanity. 

He opened up safari and went to the search bar, then paused. He wanted to look for news about his dad. He wanted to know... well, he wanted to know if they’d said anything about what was happening with the body. Stiles wanted to know if he was going to be able to get that back and give his dad a proper burial. 

He’d never visited his mother’s grave, but he was sure she had one here in Beacon Hills. He’d really like to be able to lay his father to rest beside her. 

He wanted the opportunity to apologize for not telling him how much he loved him. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

“Jesus!” Stiles whipped around, Peter standing right behind him, eyes on the computer screen. “Okay, clearly being with a guy who can’t speak for a few days has really dulled my ability to handle people who can.”

“Dinner’s ready.” 

“Already?” Stiles checked the time and saw it was half-past. He’d spent more time on the phone than he’d thought. 

He got to his feet and followed Peter to the table. He hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until he _saw_ the food, and God, it looked so good after days of fast food burgers and fries. 

It wasn’t anything particularly fancy, but it was still better than anything Stiles could’ve made in half an hour. It looked like some kind of fried rice, complete with egg and salty base. It had so many vegetables in it, Stiles felt his body weeping in relief and he may have gone for a second helping. He wasn’t concerned about how much he was eating, considering the amount Peter had made. He knew Werewolves ate a lot, but that was a little excessive. 

“I imagine you’re familiar with how to use an Iphone?” Peter asked when they were both done eating, leaning back in his seat and eying Stiles. 

“Yeah. Thank you,” he added, in afterthought. “I appreciate it.” 

“I imagine I don’t need to remind you of this, but you should avoid looking up anything on the phone or computer that would lead people to suspect your identity. We don’t want to send up any alerts, but I also don’t want you to be isolated.” 

“Right,” Stiles said, figuring Peter likely knew exactly what he’d wanted to type earlier. “Thanks.” 

Peter said nothing, watching Stiles for a moment, then let out a groan and sat up properly, checking the time on his watch. “Derek’s taking his time. I do hope Cora hasn’t murdered him, she has a bit of a temper.” 

Stiles didn’t know if that was a joke or not so he didn’t laugh. He just let out an awkward cough, then said he’d clear the table and went about doing that. When he’d put everything away and packed up the remainder of the food, he walked back out into the main area and found Peter texting. He was probably trying to figure out where Derek was, or when he would be back. 

“You can shower, if you like,” Peter said without turning. “Protective as I am of you, I can manage to trust your ability to be safe in the bathroom.” 

Evidently, the look he and Derek had shared earlier _hadn’t_ been missed. Stiles wanted to be embarrassed, but really, it was all Derek. He was the weirdo watching him shower. 

“Thanks. I’ll do that.” 

He went upstairs to hunt down his pyjamas, all of the clothes he and Derek had bought already put away. He found them in the bottom drawer of the smaller dresser, then headed back downstairs. There was already a towel in the bathroom on a rack—plus another behind the door—so he took a quick shower and relished the brief alone time he had. He knew it wouldn’t last once Derek got home. 

He paused while drying off when he thought about the fact that this place was home now. Home with _Derek_. A mute Alpha Werewolf model whose family had sworn to protect Stiles’ whom he’d met literally a week ago. Because he was the most powerful being on the planet. His life was officially weird. 

When he exited the bathroom after having gone through his entire nighttime routine, Peter was still sitting at the table, but he had a book in front of him now, flipping through the pages and scowling. He also had a cup of coffee by his elbow, which suggested he’d bought some for the loft, presumably because he’d be around every now and then. 

“I’m gonna head to bed, if that’s okay,” Stiles said, holding a ball of waded up clothes under one arm. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t anticipate tomorrow being any shorter.” 

Peter shooed him away with one hand, eyes still on his book. “I imagine you don’t require tucking in.” 

“What, not gonna come make sure there aren’t any invisible bad guys hiding under the bed?” 

“I can do that right before I kiss you goodnight and wish you pleasant dreams, and tell you how I hope the bedbugs don’t bite.” 

Stiles snorted and decided he liked Peter. It may have taken him a few hours to come to that conclusion, but he preferred Peter’s watchful eye over Derek’s incessant looming. It occurred to him that maybe for Derek, it wasn’t so much about being close to him, but more that Peter could shout about danger if he needed to whereas Derek couldn’t. If he wasn’t right on top of Stiles, there was a risk to his safety. 

Hard as it was going to be for Derek to talk about, and for Stiles to understand, he was going to need to figure out more about that curse he was under. After all, if Stiles was magic, it meant he could presumably help break it somehow. Give Derek his voice back. That’d be nice. 

“Night,” Stiles said automatically, then turned to climb up the rickety steps. 

“Sleep well, little Spark.” 

Stiles ignored that and disappeared to the second floor. There was a small laundry basket in the far corner by the window so he dumped his dirty clothes in there to be dealt with later, then turned to look at the bed. 

He didn’t know if Derek had a preferred side, so he figured he’d just sleep on the right side like he had the night before. Crawling under the covers, he was pleasantly surprised with how soft they were, and also a little relieved that it wasn’t insanely hot in the loft given the weather outside. He didn’t know if there was some kind of air conditioner, or if it just had really good airflow, but it was relatively cool and comfortable. 

While he wasn’t sure he’d manage to sleep given how insane his mind was, he was exhausted enough after the bombs dropped that day that it only took him a few minutes to finally pass out. He woke briefly at the sound of screeching, but it was at the back of his mind and he fell asleep again before recognizing what it even was. 

He couldn’t help jolting awake when the bed dipped, rolling over quickly with his mind still sleep-fogged and panic in his chest. A light hand touched his shoulder and when he finally managed to blink the sleep from his eyes, he could see a large shadow with red eyes frozen half-on the bed. 

“Derek,” he mumbled, brain catching up to him. He fell onto his back once more from his half-raised position and inhaled deeply, rubbing at his face. “What time is it?” 

Derek didn’t reply, not that he expected him to, but Stiles just let out a small grunt and then rolled over again, his back to Derek while the Werewolf slid more fully onto the bed. He shifted around a little bit, likely to get comfortable, and then went still and silent. 

Stiles was still closer to sleep than wakefulness, so it didn’t take him long to pass out, listening to the soft, steady breathing of his Werewolf protector behind him. 

Yup. This was his life now. 

Super. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- Peter and Stiles have a conversation wherein he implies what happened to Derek while he was with Kate. Still fairly canon-compliant so yeah, implied rape. He doesn't go into any details, and he doesn't even say it, he just implies that Derek doesn't like sex anymore for obvious reasons. 
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Harry Potter (c) J.K. Rowling  
> \- Avatar: the Last Airbender (c) Michael Dante DiMartino & Bryan Konietzko


	5. What I Want

He hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard. He knew why it had taken so long, mostly because he’d spent days in a car freaking out, and then had arrived in Beacon Hills to have massive bombs dropped all over him, so his adrenaline was at like, twenty-seven out of ten. Still lower than Derek’s, but relatively high. 

Stiles knew that was the only reason it took so long for it to hit. To _really_ hit. And it was so fucking stupid how it had been triggered, but he knew it made sense at the same time. 

He’d woken up before Derek, which was understandable since the Werewolf had come home at ass o’clock in the morning. It had been challenging sneaking out of bed, mostly because he was sure Derek was less tired than he’d been the day before, but he still didn’t want to wake him. So he’d silently levered himself out of bed and was _sure_ the stairs would creak and have Derek jerk awake.

While they _did_ creak, Derek was _just_ tired enough not to wake from that slight sound, and Stiles managed to make it to the first floor without two-hundred pounds of muscle breathing down his neck. He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then decided maybe he could try and make breakfast. So far Derek was doing everything for him, so he figured just one thing would be nice, especially since he had no idea how Derek’s evening with his sister had gone. 

Opening the fridge and finding eggs, Stiles grabbed various items out of it to make some omelets, because who didn’t like omelets? Nobody. Omelets were delicious, and something Stiles _actually_ knew how to make, so he gathered up a few items and set them on the counter. 

It was while he was cracking the eggs and beginning to separate out the egg yolk from the egg whites, since egg yolks were bad for his dad’s heart, that he realized what he was doing and it hit him like a truck. 

His dad was dead. 

His dad, who’d been with him for as long as he could remember, who’d protected him, who’d promised he’d tell him everything _one day_ , the man who’d loved him and told him so every day... he was dead. 

He was dead, he was dead, hewasdead, _hewas **dead**_! 

Stiles didn’t even realize he was having a panic attack until he was sitting on the floor, clutching his calves with his head buried between his legs, struggling to inhale. It was hard between the sobbing, nails digging into the meat of his legs, but he couldn’t get himself back under control. 

He just sat on the kitchen floor, crying like he’d never cried before, unable to stop, unable to think of anything else. Every thought he’d had over the past few days that he’d managed to push back due to panic and adrenaline came rushing to the surface. About his father’s body, about what had happened to him, about whether or not he knew Stiles _loved him_ , about how he’d died to protect him. 

His dad had given up everything to keep him safe. He’d taken Stiles’ anger and frustration in stride, he’d never yelled at him or told him to stop being a selfish little shit, he’d never once raised a hand to him. His dad was one of the most amazing people Stiles had ever met, and he was gone, and it was all his fault, and he didn’t know how to deal with it. 

Stiles had no idea how long he was sitting on the kitchen floor crying, but that was where Derek found him when the Werewolf finally climbed out of bed. For once, he didn’t come barrelling out of a room, hunting Stiles down and jabbing angry fingers at him for wandering away. Instead, Stiles didn’t even realize he was up until he heard soft footsteps padding across the kitchen floor. 

He still had his head between his knees, breaths coming harshly punctuated by sobs, and he heard Derek let out a soft breath. The Werewolf crouched in front of him, then reached out one hand to rub at his back, up and down his spine in a slow, soothing motion. 

Stiles just tightened his hold on his own legs, feeling his nails break skin, and he tried, he _tried_ to stop, but his dad was dead and he didn’t know what to do, and everything was fucking _insane_ and his life was spiralling out of control and—

Derek was hugging him. 

The hand on his back had shifted, and Derek was kneeling in front of him, and he was hugging him as best he could in Stiles’ bent over position. It was such an unexpected thing for him to do that it momentarily stuttered Stiles’ breathing and he managed to get control of it again. It was still exceptionally fast, but he could at least get a full breath in as opposed to the small, gasping pants he’d previously been attempting. 

Derek’s cheek was on his head, and he continued hugging him but had moved one hand so he could rub it up and down his back in a soothing manner. It was... nice. It was probably the first thing Derek had done this entire time that made Stiles think that maybe it wasn’t only about the oath. Maybe Derek had actually started to care about him over the years, despite Stiles not even knowing he was there. 

It took a while for Stiles’ breathing to return to normal, and when he shifted, Derek slowly released him and leaned back. Stiles cleared his throat and sat up, his back aching from the position he’d held for so long and his leg muscles cramping. He rubbed at his face to rid it of tears and cleared his throat again before glancing over at the counter. 

There was an egg yolk and half an eggshell on the floor by the stove, the other half having managed to stay up on the counter. Or maybe it was in the bowl with the egg white Stiles had been separating. 

He could feel Derek watching him, but he resolutely didn’t look at him, focussing instead on the mess he’d made on the floor. He probably had egg all over his pants and face from his hands. He’d have to run his pyjamas through the wash. 

“I was gonna make omelets,” he said, clearing his throat again and clapping his hands once. “I should make omelets.” 

He struggled to his feet, but Derek grabbed one of his arms and tugged gently. Stiles didn’t look at him, focussing instead somewhere else a bit to Derek’s left, but he also knew that was a dick move. Derek could only speak using his expressions, and Stiles was purposefully looking anywhere but at his face. 

When Derek gave him another light jostle, Stiles inhaled deeply and glanced over at him. He didn’t like the concern on his face, but he liked the complete and utter understanding he found there even less. This was someone who knew what losing family felt like. This was someone who’d lost a lot more in his life than Stiles had, and he still managed to get out of bed every morning. 

Stiles wasn’t the only person to have experienced loss, he just hadn’t experienced it before. His mother was before he could remember her, but his father? His father was everything. The one constant in his life, a man who’d been kind, and honourable, who’d loved him unconditionally, and had only ever wanted to keep him safe. 

He hadn’t deserved the end he got. He’d deserved better. Way better. 

He’d deserved better than Stiles. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles insisted, tugging his arm free. Derek, surprisingly, let him pull away, but he watched Stiles get to his feet before slowly rising himself. “It was going to come out eventually. Just didn’t think it’d happen over eggs.” 

He rubbed at his face again, then moved to the counter, grabbing some paper towel and bending down to clean up the mess he’d made. When he turned to toss it out, he walked right into Derek, who was on his ass, just like always. 

“I get your whole obsession thing, but I need—please, just... five minutes. Please.” He shoved at Derek with one hand and the Werewolf reluctantly shifted away from him, moving towards the kitchen doorway. He didn’t leave, but he at least wasn’t stuck to Stiles’ back. 

Stiles tossed out the soiled paper towel, then wet some more and wiped down the floor where the mess had been just to make sure it was clean. The second part of the shell had actually hit the counter, so he just threw that out and cracked another egg into the bowl of egg whites. He didn’t bother separating out the yolk.

There was no one to worry about. 

He managed to make both omelets without Derek superglued to his back, having held up ingredients for Derek to pick from. He interpreted scowls as ‘no’ and shrugs as ‘yes’ so Derek ended up with cheese, ham, mushrooms and red pepper in his omelet. Stiles threw in a little bit of everything, his body still crying for more vegetables and he figured he could make something with the leftover vegetables he’d cut up for lunch or dinner. 

Handing Derek his plate, Stiles carried his own past him and to the table, setting it down and falling into his chair. Derek did the same, eying him with concern, and Stiles was a little struck by how domestic this all was. 

Living in an apartment with a guy, making him breakfast, sitting together to eat. He knew it wasn’t like that, but it was weirdly domestic, even if it was more along the lines of a bodyguard and his charge. Stiles had grown up with the agents, and he’d never felt anything _domestic_ with them. 

He also didn’t share a bed with them, but well, at least Derek didn’t steal the covers. 

Breakfast was a silent affair, since Derek couldn’t talk and Stiles didn’t want to. They both ate, Stiles keeping his eyes on his food, and when he finished off his plate, Derek stood and took it from him, heading back into the kitchen with both of them. Stiles was amazed he managed to let him out of his sight for the five seconds he was in there.

Progress. Five seconds was definitely progress. 

Stiles leaned back in his chair, unsure of what he should be doing now. He was positive he was due another visit with Deaton, but he didn’t have the energy for that right now. He kind of wanted to just lie on the couch and watch Disney movies. Ridiculously happy and upbeat bullshit, that was what he wanted right now. 

He glanced up when Derek walked back out of the kitchen, but instead of moving back to the table, he walked across the loft towards the other side, Stiles following him with his eyes. When Derek stopped in front of the bookshelf to grab the dictionary, Stiles was foolishly optimistic in that he thought maybe Derek was about to offer up some information about himself. 

When he came back to the table with the laptop and the dictionary, Stiles sat up straighter and positioned the laptop in front of himself. Derek sat down beside him, flipped the dictionary open, and began flipping back and forth through the book while Stiles typed out each word. 

He didn’t know why he was surprised at the outcome. 

_you should start read the book I bought and the one my uncle give you_

Stiles stared at the words for a long while before shifting his gaze to Derek, who was staring right back at him. 

“Why did I even bother?” Stiles asked him, pushing away from the table and getting to his feet. “You’re just like everyone else. I’m not actually Stiles, I’m just the Spark.” He threw his hands out to either side mockingly, ignoring the burn in his eyes. “Have to get me all trained up so I stop being so useless, right?” 

Derek frowned at that, but when he turned to open the dictionary again, Stiles just let out a bitter laugh. 

“No, no, don’t worry, I get it. It’s fine. I’ll stop being a burden and just get to work on becoming all powerful. Just let me know when I’m good enough to repay you for your services. Because that’s what this is, right? I’m going to owe you. And your uncle. And Deaton. I’m just—a commodity. Something sparkly for you guys to taunt others with. Well, at least I ended up with the good guys, so there’s that.” 

Derek was scowling even more and he started tapping insistently at the dictionary, a silent order for Stiles to come back so they could talk about it. 

Stiles was pretty sure he wasn’t interested in hearing what Derek had to say. 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Prisoner then, prisoner now. I’m used to it. But hey, at least my wrist doesn’t hurt anymore, so that’s a plus.” 

Stiles turned to the bookshelf, grabbed a book at random, then headed for the door. Derek’s chair scraped as he stood, moving to cut him off, planting himself right in front of the exit. Stiles had no choice but to stop, but he just stared at the door past Derek’s right ear, refusing to look him in the face. 

“Move,” he ordered. 

Derek just crossed his arms, and Stiles saw his eyebrows rise out of the corner of his eye in a very clear, “Make me.” 

“I’m going downstairs so I don’t light our loft on fire.” He let out a small laugh. “I’m sorry, _your_ loft. Because it’s _your_ loft, and this is _your_ book and I’m _your_ property. So unless you want me to light things on fire again, move out of my way so that the only thing catching fire is the train car in the basement.” 

Derek didn’t move an inch, still watching him, arms crossed. 

Stiles felt like he was going to explode. “Derek, _move_!” 

Derek slammed back into the door so hard that it groaned loudly in protest. He crumpled, landing hard on his hands and knees and letting out a pathetic wheeze, as if Stiles had physically shoved him even though he hadn’t touched him. 

He felt bad about it. Stiles honestly felt bad about the wave of energy that had exploded off him and slammed into Derek, but right now, he really just wanted to be somewhere else. Literally _anywhere_ else. 

So while Derek coughed and struggled to catch his breath, Stiles moved around him to unlock the door. He tugged on it and managed to wrench it open. It was hard, and groaned the whole way due to the dent that was now present in it, but it opened. He slipped through the gap and headed down the stairs, being mindful of anything sharp on the floor since he was barefoot. 

He knew it wouldn’t be long before Derek followed, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to go outside, just down into the open space Peter had specifically said would be a good place to practice magic. He wasn’t conceited enough to think he could do it immediately barring the random outbursts he had, but he at least wanted to avoid torching the couch in case he stretched and embers exploded out of his fingers or something. 

When he reached the bottom of the steps, looking around, he was surprised at how bright it was. There were a shit-ton of windows, but it had been almost dusk when he’d arrived the night before so it had made the place look much darker. Now, with the sun up and shining through all around, the place was almost painfully bright. 

He heard Derek’s steps stumbling down after him, and Stiles felt guilty for half a second before shrugging the feeling off. He hadn’t meant to hurt him and really, well, Derek hurt him first. Childish, maybe, but Stiles wasn’t feeling particularly gracious right now. He’d lost everything and had his life turned upside down in the space of a week, he was entitled his brattiness. 

Moving carefully through the area on the bottom floor, he picked his way across to the train car that was lying on its side. Poking his head into it, he climbed through the roof hatch, cursing to himself when he stepped on something sharp, and slowly moved to the back of the car. 

Everything was sideways, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t planning on having the damn thing move, he just wanted somewhere quiet and secluded—and safe—to read his damn book. So he found a seat that was in relatively good shape and sat down with his ass on a window and his back against the seat. 

He didn’t hear Derek anymore, but he knew he was out there somewhere. Probably sitting on the stairs like a weirdo. Or hell, maybe he was right outside the train car on the other side of the metal from where Stiles was sitting. He didn’t know, but he wouldn’t put it past him. 

Opening the book, he realized it was one of the ones Peter had brought over from the vault at the school. He hadn’t been paying attention to what he’d grabbed, he’d just gone for whatever his fingers touched first. 

It looked like it was a book on Warlock magic, based on the title. Stiles let out a small sigh, tried to get comfortable, and then turned the page so he could begin to read. 

He mentioned his life was super, right?

Because his life was just so, _so_ awesome. 

* * *

Living with Derek was kind of like living with a kicked puppy who didn’t know how to apologize. 

Stiles wasn’t mean to him or anything, he just didn’t really make an effort to be around him. He woke up and immediately made himself breakfast so that Derek wouldn’t have to do it for him—which he tried to do, _all the time_ —and then took a shower. He’d get dressed in comfortable clothes, make himself a sandwich—sometimes he’d do this while making breakfast so that _Derek wouldn’t do it for him_ —and grab a glass of water. Then, he’d go down to his train car, which had magically turned into some kind of little fort one night while he’d been asleep, because it had blankets and pillows and was basically a little comfortable space for him to curl up in and read. 

He didn’t think about how hard it must’ve been for Derek to convey what he wanted for someone else to bring, because Stiles knew Derek hadn’t gone out to get them. He just didn’t want to focus on Derek at all, if he could help it, since he’d made his position on Stiles _crystal_ clear. 

Stiles was a Spark, and he was only good for learning his magic, that was it. So that was what he would fucking do. 

He usually spent all day in the train car reading until it got too dark to see the words on the pages. He wasn’t brave enough to try any of the spells, so for the moment he just read through the same book over and over to make sure the information stuck. He knew it would, with the memory he had, but it felt different reading it on a page versus actually attempting it. He didn’t want to attempt it yet, just in case. 

He probably should’ve started with a Druid book, since he had one of those in town, not that Deaton had dropped in. He hadn’t seen anyone since that first day, not even Peter. 

Sometimes Stiles would exit the train car and find plates of food waiting for him, kind of like a peace offering, with Derek sitting on the stairs. Other times he’d come out and find Derek sitting on top of the train car reading one of the magic books he’d bought from Kira’s shop. 

They usually made dinner together, but Stiles didn’t eat at the table anymore. He just went to the desk and ate in front of the computer, browsing the internet and watching random YouTube videos to distract himself from what he really wanted to look up. 

He wasn’t being _mean_ about it with Derek, he just figured there was no point in making friendly with him anymore. Derek had made it explicitly clear that he was just interested in Stiles as the Spark and nothing more, so Stiles wasn’t going to try and make friendly anymore. 

He was used to being alone, anyway. It was no different than living with his dad, except quieter. 

Much quieter. 

Stiles wondered if this was part of being a Spark. Always being alone. Nobody caring about the person, just about the power. It made for a very lonely life, but Stiles had grown up lonely and he didn’t know why he’d expected that to change. At least he wasn’t dead, and he was safe, and had a roof over his head, and food in his stomach.

Though he knew all that had a price. One day, the people helping him were going to turn around and ask him for a favour, and he wouldn’t have any grounds to refuse. Because they were keeping him safe and fed and cared for. 

He wondered how different this was to being in a collection. Probably not much, except he wasn’t on display.

Not yet, anyway. 

It was the second week in that they finally got their first visitor since their move to the loft. Stiles was lying on a pile of blankets in his usual train car, mouthing words to himself that he’d already memorized, when he heard locks snapping. 

He sat up, dropping the book, but when all he heard was a low rumble from Derek—based on the sound, he was sitting on the train car today—he figured it wasn’t anyone dangerous.

Sure enough, when all the locks clicked and the door squealed open, a familiar voice called out. 

“Nephew. Nice to see you taking advantage of the space available to you. Where’s our little Spark, then?” 

Derek didn’t say anything, obviously, but he must’ve motioned where Stiles was because a few moments later, Peter’s head poked through the roof hatch Stiles always climbed into the car through and he smirked. 

“Well this is cozy. You take your cues from Werewolves?” 

“I wasn’t the one who made it,” Stiles said, picking the book back up and shifting so he was sitting cross-legged, plopping it onto his lap and flipping through it to find his page once more. “Derek did it one night while I was sleeping.” 

“He left your side and didn’t spontaneously combust?” Peter asked in mock surprise. “Nephew, are you well?” 

That earned him a growl, which Peter just smirked about, picking his way through the sideways car and groaning while sitting in front of Stiles. 

For the most part, Stiles ignored him, continuing to search for the right page until he finally found it. He went back to reading, but Peter didn’t leave, and as far as Stiles could tell, the guy was just sitting there _staring_ at him. 

After ten minutes of Stiles re-reading the same sentence over and over, he finally looked up at Peter, irritation seeping into his words. 

“Do you mind?” 

“Not at all,” Peter responded jovially. “Are you planning on reading that book to death, or will you eventually attempt to do something with what you’ve learned?” 

“I’m working on it,” Stiles snapped, bristling at the constant reminders that he needed to train and get himself in shape. Magically speaking, anyway. 

He _knew_ , okay! He was well aware of the fact that everyone had very high expectations because he was supposed to be this all-powerful magical being. He knew they were all waiting for him to be able to do all kinds of crazy shit. 

But no one was stopping to consider that Stiles had no _fucking_ idea what he was doing! He’d grown up with no knowledge of what he was, and what he could do, and figuring it all out with books was really hard. He could do it, he was sure, but this wasn’t exactly like Math or English. It wasn’t something to read and then magically—no pun intended—do without any actual practice. 

Magic was different, it required the practical side in addition to the theory, and he didn’t have anyone but Deaton to help him, who could only help him with Druid magic. He felt like people needed to cut him some slack before he lost his shit and accidentally blew someone up. 

Since apparently, blowing things up was possible, considering he himself could’ve exploded.

“Have you attempted any of the things you’ve learned?” Peter asked him, clearly not taking a hint. Stiles kind of wished he _had_ attempted some magic, so he could use it to make everyone leave him alone! 

“No,” he bit out. “Can you let me focus, please?” 

“As I understand it, you have a rather remarkable memory,” Peter said easily, leaning closer, as if to look at the book over the edge of it. “And I have it under good authority that you’ve been re-reading that book over and over. What’s wrong, words too big for you?” 

Stiles ignored the jab, never mind that it didn’t hit home, and glared up at Peter. “Under good authority? Who told you?” 

“Derek.” 

“I’m sure he was real vocal about it,” Stiles spat out. 

Peter stared at him for a moment, eyebrows rising slightly. His eyes looked skyward, likely hearing something from Derek that Stiles couldn’t—probably scoffing or growling or who knew what. As if aggrieved, Peter let out a loud, frustrated sigh, and leaned back against one of the sideways seats, crossing his arms. 

“Did Derek hurt your precious feelings?” 

Stiles frowned, wondering where Peter was getting that from. “What?” 

“You’re moping,” Peter said, then motioned above them with a nod of his head. “He’s moping.” 

“I’m not moping!” Stiles insisted angrily, but the speed with which he did so seemed to suggest to Peter that he was, in fact, moping. 

And he _wasn’t_. 

Instead of pressing, Peter just rolled his eyes, head going with it. “I’m sorry, my mistake. Brooding is more accurate.” 

“I’m not brooding!” Stiles snapped back, lightning quick. They all wanted him to get cracking on all this magic stuff, so why was Peter bothering him when he was trying to _read_?! 

Peter gave him a look. It was so much like Derek’s that it was a little disorienting, but if nothing else, it proved they were related—not that the bone structure and rugged handsomeness hadn’t already given that away. 

“I think you underestimate just how many teenagers I have had in my life, unfortunately for me.” Peter let out another aggrieved sigh. “I recognize brooding from across the continent.” He pretended to pout then, tilting his head slightly and exuding condescension. “Do we want to share our feelings?” 

“Get out!” Stiles snapped, resisting throwing the book at him only because he’d have to get it _back_. He wasn’t in the mood for this kind of attitude. He already wanted to run away from this damn place, and Peter wasn’t helping. 

“So that’s a no?” Peter smirked, looking pleased now. “What’s wrong, little Spark?” 

Stiles tried to rein in his anger at that. Peter always called him ‘the Spark’ or ‘little Spark,’ and he _hated_ it. He _knew_ , okay! He was well _fucking_ aware of the fact that he wasn’t a person to them, but he didn’t need Peter rubbing it in every two God damn seconds! 

“Are your needs not being met?” Peter asked. “I’m sure if you ask him nicely, Derek would be _more_ than happy to—”

“Leave me alone!” 

Stiles felt like Peter and Derek were both extremely lucky that whenever he had random bursts of magic, they were always non-lethal. He didn’t melt any skin off people, he didn’t disintegrate them into dust or turn them to stone. He barely did anything more that just expel energy that had them thrown backwards. 

He wondered if, subconsciously, his magic recognized he didn’t actually want to hurt anyone, because once again, without his consent, magic exploded out of him and Peter slammed back into the side of the train car. Stiles tried to fight back the nausea when he saw the way the floor of the car dented from the force of Peter’s hit. He knew he was a Werewolf, and it likely hadn’t done any damage—none that would last, anyway—but they still felt pain. 

Stiles felt like it was a good thing the train car was sideways and Peter slammed into the floor instead of flying through the windows. He fell hard to the ground, landing on his hands and knees, and letting out a small cough. Stiles saw his fingers had shifted, claws extended, and he was sure Peter had fully wolfed out, though he couldn’t see his face with how he was holding himself. 

He idly wondered what he’d done to Derek, since he heard nothing from above him. Either he’d thrown him completely off the train car, or the force of his magic had been horizontal only and had thus only affected Peter. Either way, Derek was silent above them. 

Stiles waited for Peter to freak on him, since he didn’t seem as interested in keeping him safe as Derek was. He could feel tension rising in the train car the longer he waited, and when Peter finally lifted his head and flashed blue eyes at him, Stiles felt his stomach drop. 

He really hoped Derek wasn’t unconscious because he felt like he needed him. Immediately. Right now. Post-haste. 

“Derek,” Peter said after a few moments of staring at Stiles. Surprisingly, he didn’t sound murderous, more... concerned. Which was strange, considering what Stiles had just done to him. “Why don’t you go visit Cora for a short time?” 

Apparently, Derek was fine because Stiles heard the snarl loud and clear, the Alpha above him showing his displeasure at basically being told to beat it. 

“Stop growling,” Peter said, getting to his feet rather unsteadily. He winced and rotated one shoulder, eyes on Stiles while he did so. “I’m perfectly capable of keeping him safe in your absence. Leave us a moment.” 

Stiles was _positive_ Derek wouldn’t, because for one thing, he was freakishly territorial and protective, and for another, Peter was _clearly_ about to kill him! So really, he knew there was no risk whatsoever of being left alone with this Werewolf who definitely, positively, _abso-fucking- **lutely**_ wanted to murder his face. 

That was why his head shot up when he heard Derek shifting and then footsteps overhead. Derek jumped down on Peter’s side of the train car and banged on it loudly once. 

“Yes, nephew, you’ll kill me if you return and he isn’t in top form.” Peter was slowly shifting back to human, but his eyes were still electric blue and locked on Stiles. “Lock up on your way out.” 

Another loud bang, likely Derek annoyed that Peter thought he even had to _mention_ it, then his footsteps receded. 

Neither of them moved while Derek walked away. They waited until the door opened and then slammed loudly. Peter cocked his head, like he was listening to Derek lock up and leave. Stiles couldn’t hear anything, but he knew when Derek had finally driven away because Peter closed the distance between them and crouched in front of Stiles, watching him intently with his terrifyingly blue eyes. 

“Stiles,” he said, and it was a bit of a shock to hear his _name_ escape Peter’s mouth. “Emotions have power, and I’m not going to be the one to tell you to bottle them up and let them fester for the good of the people. What you did, you did out of anger, and while I am particularly resilient, not everyone is. Not to say I care for others, but you are someone I have to protect and any outbursts like that around unfriendly parties are a risk to your person.” 

“I can’t exactly control it,” Stiles insisted, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He wasn’t entirely sure he succeeded. 

“You can once you practice,” Peter argued, searching his face as his eyes slowly returned to their more normal blue colour as opposed to the electric blue they had just been. “What happened with Derek?” 

“Nothing,” Stiles insisted, but even as he said it, he knew Peter was aware that he was lying. He just didn’t want to talk about it, because it wouldn’t change anything. 

“Then why does he look like a kicked puppy, and you like the guilty party who did the kicking?” 

“He kicked me first!” The words were out before he could stop them, and he wished he wasn’t so fucking childish. But he was _not_ handling this very well, and he wanted a little bit of actual _support_ as opposed to people barking at him to get training and get powerful and just—be ‘The Spark.’ No one wanted _Stiles_ , they wanted what he was. 

And he hated that. 

Peter just hummed in response to that, like Derek being an asshole to him was a surprise to no one. He sat down once more so he wasn’t crouched in front of him and let out a small sigh. He closed his eyes briefly, like he was stealing himself, then opened them and smiled at Stiles. 

“Talk to me.” 

Stiles frowned and let out a scoff. “And say what?” 

Peter shrugged easily, reaching down to pick a piece of dirt off his dark jeans and rubbing at the spot when it didn’t fully come out, seeming irritated. “Whatever you need to,” he said. 

Stiles said nothing, because what the fuck was he supposed to say? He had no idea what Peter wanted from him. If Stiles said anything right now, it was all going to be rude and angry. 

“Just talk to me,” Peter said, sighing in annoyance and motioning for Stiles to get on with it, as if Stiles was being difficult. “Tell me what you want, Stiles.” 

What he wanted? Peter wanted to know what he _wanted_?! He wanted him to tell him exactly how he was feeling right then?! Well shit, who was he to disappoint him?! 

“What I want?” Stiles asked darkly, fingers tightening around the edges of the book he still held. “What I _want_?!” he shouted. 

Peter didn’t react, sitting in front of him calmly, waiting for him to continue. 

And now that Stiles had started, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. He didn’t know if that was Peter’s intention, but he looked like he was anticipating the explosion that came next. 

Stiles threw the book across the train car, narrowly missing Peter’s head. He didn’t even flinch. 

“I want to be _normal_!” he shouted, almost right in his face. “I want to graduate from high school! I want to have the opportunity to make _friends_! To _know_ people! I want to go to university and study something that _actually_ interests me!” He threw one hand out expansively, aimed mostly towards the exit of the building he was trapped in. “I don’t want to be _locked up_ all the time! I don’t want to be treated like a possession, like a _thing_! I want to be a real person!” He motioned himself angrily with both hands. “I want to go out and have _fun_! I want this to all be a horrible _fucking_ dream! I want—”

His breath caught in his chest when he realized what he wanted. What he really, _truly_ wanted, and his next words were like broken glass on his tongue. 

“I want my dad back,” he admitted, raking one hand through his hair. He hadn’t even realized it was shaking, or that there was electricity dancing beneath his skin. “I want my dad. I want him back, I’d do _anything_ to get him back, to just-just go back.” He could feel his eyes burning and he rubbed at his face roughly. “Be what we were, move around, argue about food, _be_ together. I want-I want my _life_ back.” And as he continued, the anger dissolved and turned instead to grief. Because he wanted so many things, but he wasn’t going to get them. 

And the thing he wanted most, he knew he could never have. 

“I don’t care,” he admitted quietly, squeezing his eyes shut behind his hands in an attempt to stop the tears from forming. “I don’t care if it was awful, and lonely, and I hated it. I had him. I _had_ him, and I just want him back. Please. Please, I just want him back.” 

He clenched his fingers through his fringe, tugging at his hair while keeping his palms over his eyes. His chest was constricting and his eyes burned and he just wanted everything to stop. To go away and just stop. He didn’t want to do this anymore. 

He heard Peter shift, but didn’t look up at him, keeping his face buried in his hands and his knees drawn up. He hated feeling like this. Like a stupid, useless child. He was eighteen, he was legally an adult, and he wanted to take everything in stride. 

But this was his dad, and this was his life, and had he ever really _lived_? What kind of life had he had up to now? Imprisoned and sheltered, his father gone, and a new prison with a stricter guard and expectations and he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t do this. He was eighteen years old, and as much as people said that was adulthood, he still felt like he was twelve and he just wanted his dad to fix everything for him. 

Stiles tensed when Peter pressed into his side. He didn’t wrap an arm around him, or try and hug him, but he pressed right into him with the entire length of his side, and let out a small sigh. 

“Life isn’t fair,” Peter said, which Stiles already knew, so he didn’t know why he was bothering. “We are all given our roles, and most of us don’t like them. I can’t change your history, or your future, any more than I can change mine. But you have to understand your place in the grand scheme of things.” 

Stiles heard a small thunk, and knew Peter had let his head fall back against the roof of the train car, pressing harder into his side. 

“You are the equivalent of a baby in your magical abilities. You are an all-powerful being who has no idea what he’s doing. You are a veritable child, and your age makes it easy for others to use you to their advantage. You are weak, and vulnerable, and can easily be manipulated into doing what anyone wants. You may dislike the life you lead, and you may hate us for how hard we push, but we have your best interest in mind. The faster you train, the stronger you become, and the more likely you are to protect yourself the next time someone comes after you. We don’t see you as a possession or a thing, Stiles. We see you as you are, and what you are in this moment is a very young, terrified, _lost_ little boy. And nothing is more terrifying to those of us trying to keep you safe than knowing how easily you can be taken away.” 

Stiles let his hands slide off his face, sniffing loudly and kind of pleased he’d managed to push back the tears, because that was the last thing he needed. To prove Peter right. 

But he _was_ right, and that was the shitty thing. Stiles hadn’t stopped to consider that they weren’t treating him like a _thing_. He just saw it that way because of what they said to him and what they kept pushing onto him. But really, wasn’t Peter right? 

When Stiles had started losing his cool in the clinic, Derek had been the first person to shove him out the door and away from Deaton, because he could _see_ how emotionally fractured the conversation was making him. They’d returned home and he’d immediately wanted them to move, because he was worried about Stiles being found, being hurt. 

And even when Derek had pressed for Stiles to train, it wasn’t about Derek not wanting to get to know him, it was about being _worried_. Derek had been bringing him food, had been staying with him outside the train car, had been _watching_ him. Sure, he had the blood oath, and he was being protective of him, but the easy way with which he’d left at Peter’s insistence made it clear he just wanted what was best for Stiles. 

Maybe he’d been trying to tell him that, in his own way. Maybe this was all a huge misunderstanding and Stiles was too bitter and angry and _grieving_ to understand that these people truly wanted to _help_ him. It didn’t guarantee they wouldn’t ask for his help in return, but so far, Derek had honestly done nothing to suggest he wanted Stiles for his magic. He just wanted him to be _safe_. 

And apparently, so did Peter. 

“I can’t _do_ this on my own,” Stiles insisted quietly, not looking at Peter as he said so. It hurt to admit, but it was the truth. “I need my dad.” 

Peter let out a soft sigh, probably one of the most human sounds Stiles had heard escape him since they’d met. “We can’t give you that, Stiles. But you’re not alone here. We may not be what you need, but we’re Werewolves, and Supernaturals. We can help you, in our own way. You just need to let us. And stop throwing us into walls, it’s rude.” 

Stiles let out a watery laugh, sniffing again and rubbing at his nose. He ran both hands down his face again and then let them drop, staring at the book he’d tossed away and wincing. It was an old tome, and it was now lying in a heap on the ground, open and face-down. He’d probably ripped a lot of pages by throwing it like that, or at least creased them. 

“One spell.” 

“What?” Stiles looked at Peter.

He held up one finger on his left hand. “One spell. Go through the book, and choose _one_ spell that you are going to work on mastering. It doesn’t have to be a big spell, or even a useful spell, but you need to practice and doing even one spell will make you feel like you’re progressing.”

Stiles looked at the book again, hesitated, then let out a slow breath. Peter was right, if he didn’t even _try_ , he’d never get anywhere. 

Grunting while pushing off the wall, he crawled forward a bit before getting to his feet, and went to retrieve the book. He didn’t think it was a good idea doing magic inside the train car with Peter, so he headed for the hatch and climbed out. Peter followed him a moment later and went to the other train car on the cinder blocks. He hopped up into the open doorway and sat there, watching Stiles for a moment before pulling out his phone. 

He probably figured Stiles wouldn’t appreciate an audience, and he was right. 

Stiles flipped through the book slowly, despite knowing basically the entire thing. He just wasn’t sure what to start with. It was a book about Warlock magic, and that meant they were all offensive spells. He was worried he’d make a wall explode and have the whole building come crashing down on them. Considering Peter had bought this place specifically for him, he didn’t want to, not only _crush_ the guy, but also destroy his new home. 

There was one spell that was similar to the one he always unconsciously used when he was mad. It actually might have been the one he always used, if he was honest. It was the use of magical energy to force back an opponent, and seemed to be the safest one he could think of. Everything else was about shooting fire from his fingertips or some telekinesis-like bullshit where he could hurl things at someone. He’d rather just master the safest one and go from there. 

Setting the book down out of the way, he moved a bit further through the large space, turning slightly to glance at Peter. He was still just sitting on the edge of the train car texting. Licking his lips and facing the wall again, Stiles tried not to feel stupid and raised his hands in front of himself. 

He could see a random paint can on a few cinder blocks and decided that was a suitable target for the moment. All he had to do was knock it over. 

Concentrating and feeling his fingers tingle, he tried to expel energy. He tried this for a good ten minutes before going back to the book and crouching on the floor so he could see it more easily, the large tome open on the dirty concrete. He re-read it over and over, as if he didn’t already know it by heart, then headed back to where he’d been standing and tried again. 

He could feel sweat beginning to form along his skin, and a headache was slowly pulsing behind his eyes. He didn’t understand why, but he did his best to ignore it and just glared angrily at the paint can. Why wasn’t this working? He was doing exactly as the book said! 

Stiles went back to crouch in front of the book, re-reading it again, then returned to his position. He’d been attempting to knock the paint can off the cinder blocks for at _least_ a good half hour before he started so violently electricity exploded from his hands and scorched the far wall. 

“You’re being too careful.”

“Fuck!” Stiles jerked away from Peter, who’d come up right behind him silently. 

Peter rolled his eyes and grabbed at Stiles’ arm, wrenching him back into place and putting his hands on Stiles’ wrists, bringing them back up in front of himself. He was right at Stiles’ back, holding his hands up, and letting out an aggrieved sigh. 

“You’re worried about bringing the whole building down, so you’re being cautious. You’re not letting the energy out forcefully, you’re just having it trickle, like a leaking faucet. I would imagine you’re getting a headache, and there is absolutely no reason for you to be sweating this much, which means you’re forcibly pushing back your powers and only letting a tiny bit out at a time.” 

He wasn’t wrong, but Stiles didn’t know how to tell him that without feeling like a failure. He just didn’t want to accidentally blow a hole right through the wall. 

“Let’s try something different, shall we?” Peter released his wrists and shifted so he was standing beside him, crossing his arms. “Your father is dead.”

Stiles whipped around to look at him, a stone settling in his stomach at the words and his hands dropping instantly. “Excuse me?” 

“Your father is dead,” Peter repeated. “Doesn’t that make you angry? That someone had the nerve to go after him? And what are you going to do the next time you come across them? Give them a stern lecture?” He raised his eyebrows. “I know you like to talk, but I would think you’d want to at _least_ knock them around a little bit.” 

Stiles wasn’t a vengeful person by nature, and he knew he could never kill someone. Not purposefully, anyway. It wasn’t how he’d been raised, much as he’d like to destroy Deucalion for taking his father away from him. But hurting him? Not torture, but just... knocking him around. A little bit. Yeah, maybe. Maybe he’d like to scare Deucalion a little. Throw him into a few walls, drag his scrambling and resisting body across the hard floor, just... make him pay for what he’d done. 

He may not have been a vengeful person, but Deucalion had taken his dad from him and he was okay with hurting him a little bit. 

Something must’ve shifted on his face because Peter smiled slightly, then looked back at the paint can. Stiles followed his gaze, let out a small breath, then shifted into position again. He tried to channel what he felt at the thought of seeing Deucalion again. Of making him pay, truly _hurting_ him for what he’d stolen from Stiles. 

He felt his fingers tingling again, exhaled sharply, and his arms tensed. 

The paint can slammed into the far wall, white exploding across the surface. 

“Hah!” Peter clapped loudly once, then slapped Stiles on the shoulder, squeezing hard. “Well done. Might be the makings of a Spark in you yet.” 

Peter turned to head back for the train car then and Stiles let out a slow breath, eyes on the paint now slowly sliding down the wall. He looked down at his hands, then clenched them into fists and glanced back at the area he’d been focussed on. He needed to find more items to throw into the wall. 

It wasn’t much, but it was a start. 

* * *

Stiles didn’t know how long he stood trying to make things fly backwards, but it had to have been a while. Peter didn’t approach him again, and when Stiles started to lose steam, he’d just decided to try once more before calling it a day, since it had to be past dinner by now, when there was a loud bang on the door. 

“Ah, right on time,” Peter said, getting to his feet. He wandered towards the door, Stiles turning to watch him. He expected it to be Derek when the door was thrown open, but was a little surprised to see a small group of people file in. 

They all looked to be around his age, and he recognized Isaac, Boyd and Scott when they moved further into the space, looking around. Isaac was holding a stack of pizza boxes, Boyd had some bags of chips and candy, and a girl he hadn’t met had a six-pack of Coke. 

“Fun as I’m sure this is going to be, I don’t make it a habit of spending time with children,” Peter said, slapping Boyd lightly on the shoulder. “You’re in charge. Anything happens to him, Derek will kill you.” 

“Thanks,” Boyd said dryly, but Peter just laughed jovially and walked out the door, one of the girls in the group locking up behind him. 

Each turned lock felt like a nail in Stiles’ coffin, and for some reason, he felt more terrified in this one moment than he had since this had all started. And he had no idea why. 

“Hey again.” Scott grinned and moved over to where Stiles was, looking around the area with interest. “This place is kind of cool. Little creepy for my tastes, but it has a lot of open space for your magic, so that’s convenient.” He smiled toothily and stopped in front of Stiles, then held out a hand. “I’m Scott, by the way. Scott McCall. We didn’t really get the chance to talk the other week.” 

Stiles hesitated, then took his hand, a little confused. “Stiles.” 

“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean. You’ve met Isaac and Boyd?” He motioned behind himself. Boyd nodded once in greeting and Isaac smiled. It was a bit of a mischievous smile and Stiles wasn’t sure what was going on. 

“Yeah, kind of,” he said slowly, still confused. 

“The blonde is Erica Reyes,” Scott said, motioning the girl who had the pop. She was giving Stiles an appreciative once-over, the corners of her lips curled upwards. “And the redhead is Lydia Martin. Cora, Derek’s sister, wanted to come but she figured it would get weird with Derek around so she’ll probably drop in some other time.” 

“Okay?” Stiles hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question, he just wasn’t sure what was going on. “Are you—here to help me practice?” He’d really been planning on taking a break, and he also wasn’t keen to have an audience. He’d only just barely managed to figure out the one spell, and he still had to get kind of pissed off to make it work properly. 

“What do we look like, slave drivers?” Isaac asked with a snort, heading for the stairs. “We’re here to hang out.” 

“Hang out?” Stiles asked. It felt like such a foreign concept. Hanging out. He’d never really _hung out_ with people before. He didn’t stick around long enough at his various schools to make friends to chill with at lunch and whatnot, and he wasn’t allowed to bring people home or go to their places. Hanging out was something he’d only really heard about, or seen in movies and books. 

“Yeah,” Scott said, looking a little confused. “Didn’t Peter tell you? We’ve all been keeping our distance the past few weeks because we didn’t want to make you feel suffocated, but he said you were doing better and we should drop by. We were all free so we figured you’d like to spend time with people your own age.” He hesitated, glancing back at Boyd. Isaac had already disappeared up the stairs. 

“Did you want us to go?” Boyd asked.

“No,” Stiles blurted out. “No, it’s-it’s fine. I’m just—surprised.” 

“Be surprised upstairs, where it’s hopefully cleaner.” The redhead, Lydia apparently, made a face at their surroundings. “Figures Peter would find a place like this suitable for living. He’s an animal, he’d live anywhere.” 

“Hey, it’s pretty nice upstairs,” Isaac insisted from out of sight. 

“Come on!” Scott threw an arm around Stiles and started dragging him towards the stairs. “Let’s get set up and eat, it’s been a long day for everyone.” 

Stiles felt horribly disoriented, but he obediently allowed himself to be tugged to the stairs and up them, the others following like a small procession. They were all chatting animatedly with each other, Scott and Lydia commenting in contrast to one another about the place, while Erica complained about all the stairs they had to climb because it was _not_ fun in stilettos. 

When they reached the apartment, Lydia seemed a bit more satisfied and she immediately took up residence on one end of the couch. Scott shoved Stiles down onto the cushion next to her and went to join the others while they started grabbing plates, cups and bowls for all the food they’d brought. 

Stiles honestly had no idea what to do, or say, so he just sat there and watched them while Lydia, gazed over at the bookshelf. After a moment, she got to her feet and headed over to it, beginning to peruse all the titles. 

“What book are you on?” she asked Stiles without turning to him. 

“Uh, it’s a book about Warlock magic.” 

She scoffed, then turned to him, rolling her eyes. “Offensive magic? That’s what you’re starting with? How about something more useful. You have your entire life to learn how to hurt people, maybe focus more on protecting yourself.” She turned back and pulled two books off the shelves, then wandered back over to him and sat down beside him, showing him the titles. “These are for learning Witch magic. Protective, healing, that sort of thing. You seem like the kind of person who’d do well with Witch magic. Maybe you’re struggling to get the hang of it because you’re starting with the kind of magic that goes against who you are as a person.” 

“Lydia,” Isaac whined from the kitchen. “Why are you being boring? We’re not here for magic talk, we’re here to find out if Stiles is into dudes.” 

There was a loud smack, and then a curse, someone obviously having hit Isaac. Stiles stared at the kitchen doorway, confused, then turned back to Lydia. She was rolling her eyes. 

“Isaac’s dated pretty much the entire male population of Beacon Hills in his age range. You’re new meat, and cute.” She gave him the briefest of once-overs. “Watch yourself around him, he gets handsy.” 

“Lydia!” Isaac appeared in the doorway, a stack of plates in his hands. “Stop giving away all my secrets!” 

She just shrugged easily, then set the books she’d grabbed on the floor by her feet. The others started bringing stuff out into the living room, stacking everything on the coffee table. Someone had emptied out the chips into three large bowls and two pizza boxes had been set up side by side to allow more options at once. Scott passed around some plates and Erica was handing out a bottle of Coke each. She took the free spot on Stiles’ other side, arguing with Isaac about it since her skirt was short and she didn’t want it to get dirty. 

Boyd and Scott snagged the two bean bags so Isaac had to resign himself to sitting on the floor. He did so right across from Stiles on the opposite side of the coffee table, then grabbed himself two slices of pizza.

The others all started digging in, Stiles noticing Lydia making a face at the food, but she grabbed a piece of the vegetarian option anyway. He hesitated before doing the same, unsure of what he was meant to be doing, or saying. 

He expected them to start peppering him with questions about his magic, or training, or about being a Spark, but surprisingly none of them brought that up at all. The first question he was asked was actually about whether or not he liked pizza, since he was mostly picking at his food. When he confirmed he did, Isaac enthusiastically announced that they’d gotten four different types and then had proceeded to dump one piece from the other three pizzas onto Stiles’ plate to join the one slice of vegetarian he had when he confirmed he ate meat. 

Stiles wasn’t sure what was going on, but as time passed with the others speaking to each other as well as to him, he started to relax a bit more. They weren’t there to snoop and be nosy about the Spark, they actually seemed like they wanted to get to know him and make sure he was doing all right. 

He found out that Boyd and Isaac were twenty, and both Werewolves who were part of Derek’s pack. Originally they’d been part of Talia Hale’s, having been turned while still children, and when she’d died, they’d remained part of the Hale pack under Laura, and now Derek. 

Erica was nineteen, also a Werewolf—though turned when she was in her teens and joined the pack when Laura was still alive—and she’d recently graduated high school due to medical issues from middle school that had forced her to repeat a grade. She was close friends with both Lydia and Scott, who were both eighteen, and had also just graduated high school. Scott was a Werewolf as well, though he’d only been recently turned by a rogue Alpha the pack had chased out of their territory, and Lydia was a Banshee. 

All five of them knew Kira, the girl from the bookstore. She’d been invited to come along, but had been working and said she’d be around the next time. She was twenty-three, in Derek’s grade for most of their middle and high school lives—until he’d gone missing because of Kate—and was something called a Kitsune. 

While not officially part of the Hale pack like the other five, she was an honorary member. Kitsunes didn’t need to belong to packs, but Kira was so close with the entirety of the Hale pack that she may as well be part of it. 

Stiles found it interesting, listening to them all speak to each other. It was obvious they’d been friends for years, and knew a lot about one another. It was also interesting to know that Scott had been part of the pack back when he was human, and his turning had only solidified his position within it. He’d originally been training to be the next Hale Emissary after Deaton retired, but his turning had kind of halted that career path for him and they were still looking for a successor. 

They mostly talked to each other, seeming to recognize that Stiles was unsure of what to do, but they still slanted questions his way. Not about anything Spark-related, though they _did_ ask how he was surviving living with Derek. They weren’t mean about it, but most of them admitted he was uncomfortable to be around since he couldn’t speak and they didn’t really know how to include him in conversation. 

That made Stiles a little sad to hear, and he wondered how his avoidance of the other man had been affecting him the past few days. He felt bad about it, but he was also still pretty mad at him for how he’d been acting. Then again, Peter had cleared that up for him, so he mostly just felt bad despite trying to hold on to some of his anger. 

Isaac brought up putting in a movie only once during the course of the evening, mostly insisting it was nice having background noise, but they couldn’t agree on anything to watch so Lydia ended up turning on the food channel and basically no one watched it. 

It was—nice. Weird, but nice. Stiles liked having people around who knew each other so well and just talked and bantered. They enjoyed each other’s company, and they kept trying to make him feel included, asking him about his interests and hobbies, and what kind of food he liked, and what his schedule was for the coming weeks. 

Boyd and Isaac both worked—the former as a line cook at the town diner, and the latter at a clothing store in the mall the next town over—but Lydia, Erica and Scott were taking a break before university in the fall. All five of them had courses starting up, which Stiles was insanely bitter about, but most of them were doing them online and Scott even pulled up the university on Stiles’ laptop so he could check out some of the courses.

He didn’t know how to tell them university was off the table for him, so he just let them talk about it and whine about the homework while trying not to get bitter. 

He _did_ get an answer to his question about Derek and Laura though. He wasn’t sure about school for them, given they’d been following him around for years. Laura had been taking online classes to graduate high school—Stiles hadn’t known it was a thing, but apparently it was similar to being home schooled. Derek had been going to _actual_ school until his capture at sixteen. School had been a bit of a challenge for him after that, but with Laura’s help he’d managed to graduate high school online same as her. He hadn’t gotten the opportunity to go to university, but Lydia insisted he didn’t need to because his family was loaded and Derek could spend his entire life in luxury and comfort without having to worry about it. 

Apparently Peter was some kind of hotshot businessman who owned a high-end hotel chain. He worked remotely for the most part, but occasionally left town for weeks on end to tend to business. Cora usually stayed with Lydia’s family when he was out of town, and Derek used to stay with Kira’s until he’d left to watch Stiles. 

It was strange, listening to them talk about how normal life could be. They were all Supernatural, but they were all so _normal_. They’d known each other since basically diapers, and Stiles didn’t know anyone. But he kind of liked these people. They were loud, and fun, and they treated him like he was normal. 

He knew they were well aware that he _wasn’t_ , but they didn’t seem to care about what he _was_. They cared about _who_ he was. 

At quarter after eleven, Lydia’s phone buzzed in her pocket while Isaac and Scott were regaling Stiles with a story they could barely get out they were laughing so hard. Lydia let out a loud sigh while checking her message, then put her phone away. 

“Derek’s coming,” she informed the group at large. 

“No,” Isaac whined. “That wet blanket is going to make us _leave_ , and we haven’t finished telling Stiles all the embarrassing stories we have about him!” 

“Cora couldn’t delay him any longer.” Lydia stood and smoothed out her dress. “We should clean up before he gets here.” 

Stiles felt a stab of disappointment at having them all stand up so they could do that, gathering plates and glasses before heading for the kitchen. Isaac was stacking the empty pizza boxes and looking for a bag to put all the empty Coke bottles into since one was compostable and the other was recyclable. 

The five of them moved quickly, getting everything squared away and the dishwasher running. Stiles tried to help, but Scott just pushed him back onto the couch and insisted he deserved a break after the past few weeks he’d had. 

When they were done, they took their seats once more, talking about their morning plans and taking up the last few minutes of time together to groan and whine about work or chores. 

Lydia took the opportunity to touch Stiles’ arm lightly and hold the same two books out to him once more. 

“I know you must hate hearing about what you are, and trust me, as a rare Supernatural being, I can sympathize, but I hope you understand everyone just wants you to be safe. Witch magic seems to be something you’d be more comfortable with, so I think you should consider reading these books over the next few days and focus on mastering this before anything else.” 

“Are Banshees rare?” Stiles asked, surprised. He took the books from her regardless, but he’d honestly had no idea Banshees were considered rare. He’d heard of them before, but he hadn’t ever met one. He’d never considered it was because they were rare. 

“We’re almost considered endangered,” Lydia said, letting out a small scoff. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Calling us ‘endangered’ like some kind of animal species? But well, it’s the term they use when discussing Banshees.” 

Somehow, knowing he wasn’t the only one who was in the ‘rare’ category of Supernaturals in the room made him feel a little better. It was probably why the others were so good about avoiding talking about what he was. Lydia had probably grown up with people all over her for the same reason people were intrigued by Stiles. Sure, it was different, since she was just rare and Stiles was legitimately the last of his kind, but after the initial shock of seeing him again, everyone had been pretty chill about him. 

It probably helped that Derek wasn’t around for the majority of the day. 

Lydia had opened one of the books, leaning into Stiles a bit more and pointing out spells she thought would be useful for him when the chatter from the other four stopped. She and Stiles both looked up and Boyd’s face tightened. 

“Derek’s back.” 

“He sounds pissed,” Scott said, wincing. “Guess he saw all the cars.” 

Sure enough, when the door downstairs shut, it was slammed so hard even Stiles heard it. They all stared at the door in silence, and when it was wrenched open, Stiles was surprised it didn’t just slide right off the track. 

Derek walked into the apartment, eyes blood red and hands curled into fists. He looked at all the others in turn, bypassing Stiles entirely, and focussed his angry gaze on Boyd. 

Boyd raised both hands in surrender. “Peter said it was fine for us to visit. We were just looking to get to know Stiles a little bit. He’s been here for almost three weeks and we haven’t had the opportunity to talk to him, we just wanted to hang out.” 

Derek shifted closer, and then pointed at the exit, looking livid. 

“We’ll see you again soon, Stiles,” Lydia said to him, but her eyes were locked on Derek, chin raised in defiance. She closed the book and let it rest on top of the other one in Stiles’ lap, then got to her feet. The others followed suit, all wishing Stiles a good night, patting his shoulder, promising they’d see him again soon. 

They filed out with their trash, and Stiles could see the war behind Derek’s eyes while he looked between them and Stiles. He didn’t want to leave Stiles alone, but he also needed to lock up behind the pack. Eventually, locking up won out, because he turned to stomp back down the stairs. 

“Back to this, then,” Stiles muttered to himself, then got to his feet. He went to put the two books Lydia had handed over on his desk, figuring he’d start them tomorrow, then headed upstairs to grab his pyjamas. 

He was disappearing into the bathroom for a shower by the time Derek came back, and he just shut the door before the Alpha could storm over to jab angry fingers at him. Stiles didn’t know if Derek was pissed that Peter had left him, or if he was pissed Stiles hadn’t been working on his magic. He also didn’t care, because today had been good. 

Almost fun, actually. It’d started out a bit rough, but Peter’s weird pep talk, and the evening with people his own age had been really enjoyable. He hoped he had the opportunity to hang out with them all again, but with how possessive Derek was, he doubted it. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if Derek had always been this angry. He’d seemed almost like a different person while with Kira, and Boyd and Isaac had made it sound like he used to be fun back in the day. Stiles couldn’t help but wonder about how much he’d changed after his capture by that Kate person. 

When he exited the bathroom, Derek was sitting at the table, scowling down at his cell phone. Stiles wondered if he’d been trying to convey his anger and displeasure with Peter. It was probably hard to do when the other party couldn’t see him. 

“I’m going to bed,” he said, Derek glancing up at him briefly. He just grunted, eyes returning to his phone, and Stiles turned to head up the stairs. 

He threw his clothes into the hamper and crawled into bed after shutting off the upstairs light. Some illumination from downstairs made the room a little brighter than normal, given the open concept of the second floor, but it was easy for him to pass out after the excitement of the day. He woke up when Derek finally climbed in beside him, unsure of the time, but went back to sleep relatively quickly. 

Stiles wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow, considering he was positive things would return to how they had been before today.

His life was _awesome_. 

* * *

Stiles slept in longer than he’d meant to the following day. He attributed it to exhaustion from all the magic he’d used trying to master the one spell, but he knew it was later than normal when he woke up because Derek was gone and the space beside him was cold, suggesting he’d been gone for a while. He knew he wasn’t far—Derek never was—but he wasn’t ready to face him yet today. 

Letting out a groan, he pulled his pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep. Maybe if he slept the whole day, he could escape the grumpy wolf waiting for him downstairs. 

It was actually kind of frustrating, because Derek’s silence didn’t even really bother him. It seemed to bother everyone else in his life save Peter and maybe Kira, but Stiles didn’t find it to be a problem. He’d found ways to work around it, he just wasn’t interested in making friendly because Derek was an asshole. 

Even if Peter had tried to explain his actions without actually _saying_ that was what he was doing. 

He managed to lie there on his stomach, pillow covering his head, for about ten minutes before he heard the stairs creak. Derek was coming, probably to shove him out of bed and make him be a real human. 

Probably to get him back into training. 

He didn’t hear footsteps pad across the second floor, and while Derek was silent, he had a _presence_ so that when he finally stopped, Stiles knew he was _right_ beside him. Staring down at him, _looming_ , like a creeperwolf. 

Even though he knew it was useless, he pretended to sleep, not wanting to face him yet today. He was still smarting over Derek’s refusal to make friendly, and wasn’t interested in being shoved around in a silent attempt for the man to get what he wanted. 

Derek allowed him to continue pretending for about two minutes, then he reached down and poked at Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Go away,” Stiles’ muffled voice said. “I’ll get up when I’m ready. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to train _extra hard_ today to make up for yesterday.” 

He heard an annoyed huff, then Derek shoved at his shoulder a bit more forcefully. Stiles batted at his hand, but Derek just grabbed it and pushed something into it. It felt like a book, and Stiles was just pissed enough at that to throw the pillow off and arch his back. 

“Are you fucking _serious_?! Can’t I get two _fucking_ seconds to—” He cut off when he saw Derek was holding the dictionary in his other hand and looked down. The book he’d been given was the notebook, a pen tucked in the coils of the spine. 

His mind flashed back to the last time Derek had touched the dictionary, which was just to tell him to start training. A part of him wanted to just toss the notebook away and roll over, but the tenseness of Derek’s muscles made him feel like that was exactly what he was expecting. No one spoke to him, no one wanted to make time to hear what Derek had to say because it was impossible, or too difficult, or time-consuming. 

Derek expected him to just brush him off like everyone else. 

“I better not regret this,” he muttered, shifting so he could sit up properly and leaning back against the headboard. 

He noticed Derek relax ever so slightly before the Werewolf climbed up onto the bed, moving over Stiles to get to his own side and sitting down beside him. He flipped open the dictionary while Stiles pulled the pen from the coils and uncapped it, waiting for Derek to get his sentence out. 

_do you like pancake_

“Yeah,” Stiles said uncertainly. “But I don’t think we have ingredients for pancakes.” 

Derek started flipping through the dictionary again, pointing at each word and waiting for Stiles to write it down before moving to the next one. 

_there is a diner in town pack work there_

Stiles remembered Boyd mentioning it the night before, and figured Derek couldn’t exactly look up his name, considering it likely wasn’t in the dictionary. He glanced at him uncertainly, wondering what was going on, because Derek was overly paranoid and he was now asking him to go to a diner for breakfast. 

“Is that okay?” he asked uncertainly. “What about training?” 

Derek just flipped to two words this time before snapping the dictionary shut.

_get clothes_

Derek took Stiles’ notebook and pen when he was sure Stiles understood. Getting off the bed, he headed for the stairs and went back down to the first level of the loft. Stiles stared after him, confused, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He felt like he hadn’t smelled fresh air in months, considering none of the windows opened and Derek didn’t let him out on the terrace, so he was one-hundred percent on board with going out for breakfast. 

He dressed quickly, shoving his pyjamas under his pillow, then went down to the bathroom so he could relieve himself and brush his teeth. He found some shoes and tugged them on while Derek sat waiting for him at the dining room table. When he was ready to go, Derek stood and grabbed his keys, leading the way out.

Stiles hesitated by the table, then detoured and grabbed the dictionary, notebook and pen. Maybe they could have a conversation over breakfast. It’d be slow and frustrating, but he’d been living with Derek for a while now, and he kind of wanted to get to know him. Which he’d been _trying_ to do, and was the whole purpose of the dictionary, but Derek was frustratingly tight-lipped. 

And not just because of the curse. 

When he exited the loft, Derek’s eyes shifted to what he was holding, but he didn’t say anything—or, he didn’t give him a look, anyway. He just slid the loft door shut, locked it, and led the way downstairs. When they reached the door leading outside, it seemed to take everything Derek had for him to unlock it. He turned to Stiles before opening it, raising his eyebrows, and the teen rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, yes. I’ll stay close, I promise.” 

Derek eyed him warily, as if he didn’t trust him, then pulled the door open. He poked his head out to look around first, then motioned Stiles to follow him. Once outside, he hovered by Derek’s side while inhaling deeply, the Werewolf locking up and testing the door, then moved with him towards the car.

He was surprised to see it was another Camaro, similar to the one Stiles had totalled, and he idly wondered if it was the same one. It looked a little worse for wear, so he supposed it was possible, though it meant someone had gotten it back from whatever impound it had gone to. 

Derek’s fingers were wrapped around his upper arm, but not bruising like normal. Just a light touch, as if reassuring himself Stiles was staying close. He got him into the car first before rushing around it to get behind the wheel. 

When they were on the road and heading into town, Stiles rolled down his window a little bit and let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes. He’d felt so suffocated in that place, it was nice being outside. Feeling the sun on his face, breathing fresh air, seeing a bit more of the town. Derek even seemed a little more relaxed than usual, and Stiles wondered what had changed overnight. 

“Do you like pancakes?” Stiles asked, eyes still closed and head turned towards the window. 

He heard Derek tap twice on the steering wheel. 

“That’s fair, not everyone has to. You a waffle kind of guy, then?” 

Two more taps. 

“Not into sweets, huh?” 

Derek grunted, which Stiles chose to mean that he didn’t have much of an opinion. It made sense, since Derek had eaten ice cream with him that one time, but maybe he liked sweets in moderation. Or maybe he didn’t like pancakes and waffles specifically. 

“That’s cool. I have my moments with sweet stuff, but I’ll never say no to ice cream. Or chocolate. I could eat a pound of chocolate in one sitting if given the chance. Chocolate isn’t the same as regular sweets. But I like pancakes. They’re good. Smother them in peanut butter and syrup, and they’re sinful.” 

He heard Derek make a noise he couldn’t interpret, so he opened his eyes and glanced at him. The Werewolf was giving him a disgusted look and Stiles laughed. 

“Hey man, don’t knock it ‘til you try it! Dad—” He cut himself off, pain stabbing through his chest, but grit his teeth and forced himself to continue. “He used to say the same thing, until I made him taste it. He ended up really liking it. It counter-balances the over-sweetness of the syrup. You should give it a shot.” 

The scoff he got in response said, “Not likely.” and Stiles just grinned. 

It didn’t take long to reach the diner, and Stiles waited in his seat for Derek to get out and come around the car before opening his door. He hadn’t been told to do that, but he could tell Derek was trying not to be overly protective, so Stiles was willing to meet him halfway. 

When they walked into the diner, the waitress on duty came to seat them and froze at the sight of Stiles. It made him uncomfortable enough to want to leave until Derek squeezed his shoulder and growled, snapping the woman out of her stunned disbelief. She tripped over her words while walking them to a table and handed over menus before hurrying away. He didn’t know what she said to anyone, but Boyd appeared from the kitchens less than a minute later, eying Derek with concern. 

“Derek,” he said slowly, shifting his gaze only briefly to Stiles. “Stiles. Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“Derek wanted to try my peanut-butter and syrup-covered pancakes,” Stiles said with a grin. Derek’s head snapped up and he gave him another disgusted look, Boyd cocking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, seems real keen on that.” 

“Can you give us a second?” Stiles asked. “I haven’t had a chance to look at anything.” 

“Sure.” The way Boyd was watching Derek made him feel like he’d only come out because he hadn’t believed the waitress. He stared for only a moment longer before turning to head back for the kitchen. 

Derek flipped open his menu to look everything over and Stiles did the same, never having been there before and wanting to check out what they had. The waitress came by with waters and coffee for both of them before hurrying off. 

Stiles didn’t worry about it and just kept perusing the menu. He knew he wouldn’t be able to finish what he was eying, but it’d been a while since he’d had diner food, so he was going to go all out. Besides, the more food he had, the better the excuse for them to stick around for a while. Stiles wasn’t eager to head back and be cooped up like a prisoner again. 

Once he’d chosen his meal, he closed his menu and saw Derek leaning back in his booth with his arms crossed, looking around. He turned to Stiles when he saw him put his menu down. 

Stiles started to push the dictionary across the table, then realized it would be hard and awkward for him to see what Derek was pointing at. He almost stood, before realizing Derek would _not_ like him on the outside, so he instead moved into his booth up against the window and patted the seat beside him. 

Derek cocked an eyebrow and Stiles gave him a look, patting the spot more insistently. Derek sighed, raised his gaze to the sky for patience, then uncrossed his arms so he could stand and move around the booth, falling down beside Stiles and obediently pulling the dictionary over. 

Stiles uncapped his pen once more and flipped to the page he’d been using since they’d started this exercise. It was slow and frustrating, and he knew Derek probably didn’t like it very much, but at least he could communicate. It was better than nothing, in Stiles’ opinion. 

“So, things have been... awkward,” Stiles said, tapping his pen nervously against his book. “I mean, first I thought you were a murdering kidnapper, then I realized you were protecting me, then you kind of went full-dick on me and acted like I was just a _thing_ to you, and now we’re in a diner having breakfast. What happened?” 

Derek stared at him for a long moment before opening the dictionary and beginning to flip through the pages. 

_I care about you_

“Because of the oath, I know, bu—” Stiles cut off when Derek slammed his palm on the table twice, a very clear and emphatic _no_. 

He waited while Derek started flipping through the dictionary, and could see how frustrated he was getting. He could read it, too, since Derek started dropping unnecessary words. 

_not just oath you are good person I care we all care you deserve safety_

“Oh.” Stiles didn’t really now what to say to that. “Thanks. And sorry, you know, about the past little while. I was just upset.” 

_I know made fort and brought food sorry_

“It’s okay, big guy.” He slapped him lightly in the arm, but motioned for him to wait before continuing since the waitress was heading over. She frowned in confusion at the dictionary and notebook but didn’t comment and just asked what they wanted. 

Derek tugged the menu over and pointed at his choice, and Stiles ordered the Breakfast Slam, which came with pancakes, eggs, toast, hashbrowns, bacon, sausage and fresh fruit. Derek cocked an eyebrow at him when the waitress walked away, but Stiles just shrugged. 

“What? Whatever I don’t finish, you’ll eat. Werewolves are always hungry.” 

Derek tilted his head and did something weird with his mouth in a clear, “You’ve got me there” sort of way. 

“So you’re from Beacon Hills, then? Born and raised?” Stiles asked, reaching for his coffee and taking a sip. 

Derek just tapped his hand on the table once and Stiles grinned. It wasn’t the easiest method of communication, but he liked that they were at least doing this. They chatted—well, their limited version of chatting, at any rate—up until their food arrived. It was harder for Derek to make conversation while he was eating, so Stiles instead filled the silence by talking about nothing in particular. 

He tried to stay away from what he was, and Derek’s curse, as well as his fucked childhood of constant moving around, but Derek listened attentively all the same while he ate his meal. He’d ordered more of a lunch than anything, steak and potatoes and vegetables, but he still finished before Stiles did given his constant chatter. 

Stiles, predictably, didn’t manage to eat most of his food, but he at least finished the pancakes and the hashbrowns. The rest he shoved over to Derek when he was sure he was full and the Werewolf devoured that as well while watching Stiles continue to speak. 

It was nice, actually. When Derek was focussed on him like that, and grunting in response to things, it was almost easy to forget he was cursed and couldn’t speak. And the more Stiles spoke to him, the more relaxed Derek was. Like he was slowly beginning to feel like Stiles didn’t hate him.

Or maybe Derek himself was just relieved someone was _speaking_ to him like he wasn’t broken. Because Stiles didn’t think his inability to speak made him broken. Or boring. Derek’s entire face was a language of its own, and while he was sad for Derek’s inability to express himself any other way—he couldn’t even fucking _nod_ , for fuck’s sake—the guy still did pretty well in a conversation. 

They had long finished their meals by the time Boyd went on break and he brought his lunch over to their table to join them, eating it while listening to Stiles converse with Derek. He piped up every now and then when a question was tossed his way, but for the most part, he stayed silent and just watched them interact. 

Eventually, Boyd had to go back to work, and Stiles figured they should head out. They’d been there for a _while_ , and he knew he had to get some reading done today. He asked for the bill and Derek dropped some money on the table before getting to his feet. 

When they were back in the car, Stiles expected them to head home, but Derek drove them to the grocery store instead. It made sense, they didn’t really have much in way of food at the house, considering they hadn’t gone to the store since that first day. Sure, food seemed to magically appear every now and then, probably people dropping it off while Stiles was sleeping, but it would be nice to be able to grab things he actually wanted. 

“What’s your favourite vegetable, anyway?” Stiles asked while he leaned heavily against the back end of the cart, moving forward through the aisles slowly. 

Derek looked over at him, then the vegetables they were passing. He picked up a pack of pre-sliced mushrooms and waggled it at Stiles. 

It took all Stiles had in him not to say mushrooms weren’t a vegetable, but they were doing well and he didn’t want to sound like an asshole just because his brain was full of useless information that sometimes came out of his mouth without his permission. It was a near thing, but he managed. 

“Grab some,” he said instead. “I’m not the best cook in the world, but I know a really good mushroom soup recipe. We need more than just the one kind though.” Stiles moved around the cart and started picking out all the mushrooms he would need. Derek watched him, still holding the one pack of pre-sliced white ones. Stiles ended up taking it from his hand and adding it to the rest of the food in the cart. 

“I like carrots. Not sure why, but carrots are good. Carrot soup especially. I feel like it’s hard to mess up any kind of soup made with vegetables. Do you like cooking?”

Derek shrugged, which Stiles interpreted to mean he didn’t have much of an opinion on it. 

“I find it cathartic, but I’m not great at it. If you’re good with cooking, I’m not half bad at chopping. We’d make a good team. I chop, you cook. Baking, though, I’m good at. I can make brownies like nobody’s business. You might even like them, since they’re not overly sweet. Hey, maybe I should make some brownies.” 

Derek turned to give him a look, as if silently asking if he was a child, but Stiles just grinned and punched him in the arm. 

“Come on, baking is fun. It can be a bonding experience for us. I promise you’ll like them.” 

All that earned him was a sigh, but Derek _did_ turn down the baking aisle when they reached it, so Stiles considered it a win. 

Their cart was almost full when they finally headed to checkout, and Derek had one hand wrapped around Stiles’ wrist below the cash, probably because he couldn’t protect him from both sides and holding his wrist was making him feel better. 

When the groceries were paid for and loaded into the cart, Stiles wheeled it out while Derek held his upper arm lightly, looking around. It was obvious people were giving them double-takes, either recognizing Derek and ascertaining who was with him, or recognizing Stiles directly. It was weird, but he tolerated it.

They got all the groceries into the car and were back on the road in seconds. This time, Stiles could tell they were heading for the loft, but he felt a little lighter than he had when they’d left. Derek was trying, and they’d left and nothing bad had happened, so Stiles was sure that it meant he’d have the opportunity to leave again. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday in the near future. That was something to look forward to. 

Derek parked closer to the door than he’d been earlier, likely because of the limited space yesterday from all the other cars present. He and Stiles went to the door together and Derek unlocked it, then handed the keys to Stiles for the loft door. 

Stiles waited for Derek to bring some of the bags over and took them from him, then headed upstairs. He was kind of happy that Derek wasn’t dragging him through the entire space to make sure they were alone, but maybe he felt safer after two weeks of nothing happening. Maybe he was finally starting to calm down. Besides, he was a Werewolf, it wasn’t like his nose wouldn’t alert him to any threats. 

Once he reached the loft door, Stiles unlocked it and slid it open, heading straight to the kitchen with the bags and putting them on the counter. He went back downstairs to grab some more bags in time for Derek to show up with the last batch. He also had the dictionary and notebook under one arm. 

Stiles grabbed as many bags as he could carry while Derek locked up behind them and then the Werewolf followed him upstairs. He closed and locked the loft door once they were inside, and then the two of them started unloading all the groceries and putting them away. 

While Stiles wanted to get started on the brownies immediately, a glance at the time showed it was almost four. His late morning and their hours out of the house meant he’d wasted most of the day so he really needed to get started on his training, much as he didn’t want to. 

As soon as they were done, he rubbed his face with both hands, sighed, and figured he’d just read on the couch. He liked his train car, but he’d mostly been using it to hide from Derek and, if things kept going how they were now, well, he didn’t really need to hide anymore. The couch was comfortable, he could just stretch out there and read. 

When he headed for his desk and picked up one of the books, Derek knocked lightly on the table and Stiles turned to him. Derek waited until he was sure he had Stiles’ attention, then flipped through the dictionary and pointed at a word, looking back at Stiles. 

He wandered over with the book he’d picked up to check what he was saying. 

_break_

His eyebrows shot up and he glanced at Derek. “Take a break?” 

Derek’s gaze shifted to the TV and he jerked his chin towards it, Stiles following his line of sight. 

“Are you sure?” Stiles turned back to him and eyed him suspiciously. “Who _are_ you? Why are you acting so weird?” 

Predictably, Derek said nothing. He searched Stiles’ face for a long while, then sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He hesitated, then held it out to Stiles after opening up a message. 

Frowning, Stiles took it, looking down at what was on the screen. It was open on a text message with Peter, Stiles feeling a stab of hurt race through him when he realized someone else had probably had to program all the numbers into Derek’s new phone given he couldn’t write anything. 

Not even names. 

Shrugging the feeling off, he read through the messages. 

**[Peter]**  
Nephew  
 **[Peter]**  
I know you’re worried for his safety   
**[Peter]**  
And you’re looking out for him   
**[Peter]**  
But he’s a child   
**[Peter]**  
He is scared, and he feels alone   
**[Peter]**  
And you’re not exactly the epitome of calm   
**[Peter]**  
He lives with you, Derek   
**[Peter]**  
You need to make him realize you care about him   
**[Peter]**  
His magic is important, I understand it needs to be developed   
**[Peter]**  
But perhaps a bit of compassion?   
**[Peter]**  
He just lost his father  
 **[Peter]**  
As I recall, you weren’t in the best frame of mind then either   
**[Peter]**  
Perhaps showing him you value him as a person as opposed to as a weapon?   
**[Peter]**  
I believe your relationship will improve if you were to show him you care about him   
**[Peter]**  
Right now, I think he likes me more than you   
**[Peter]**  
And while this is thrilling to me  
 **[Peter]**  
I don’t live with him  
 **[Peter]**  
Just things to consider. 

**[Derek]**  
1

 **[Peter]**  
Glad you see it my way

Stiles checked the time stamp and saw it was from yesterday afternoon, when Peter had been hanging out in the train car. Derek’s response was closer to midnight, as if he hadn’t seen the message until after he’d gotten home. Stiles remembered Derek had been on his phone when he’d come out of the shower, and this must’ve been what he’d been looking at. 

Derek was trying to make Stiles realize he _did_ care about him, he probably just wasn’t good at it. Though today had gone well, so that was a plus. And he was all for spending the evening watching TV. Reading could come tomorrow, he had tons of time, he was sure, to get his magic under control. 

“Thanks,” he said honestly, holding the phone back out. Derek took it and returned it to his pocket. “I appreciate it. It’s been—challenging,” he admitted. 

Derek looked a little sad then, and Stiles figured he was thinking about how his father had died. Which was something Stiles kept trying _not_ to think about, since he’d had enough breakdowns about it. 

Giving himself a shake, he clapped his hands together once and forced a grin. “In that case, brownies? Let’s make brownies. We can get started on dinner while they’re in the oven, maybe make that mushroom soup. Unless you’d rather something else.” 

Derek shrugged and Stiles slapped him lightly in the arm.

“We’ll think on it. Come on, big guy. Chocolate awaits.” 

They headed for the kitchen. 

* * *

Things improved _drastically_ for Stiles since the day from the diner. For one thing, Derek actually spoke to him—in his own way—and stopped acting like Stiles was going to break a nail and go into anaphylactic shock over it. That made living with him _tons_ better because Stiles didn’t go out of his way to actively avoid him. They had breakfast together before Stiles went down to the train car to read, and they usually made dinner together. Lunch depended on how Stiles was feeling, but he’d usually at least come out of the train car so he and Derek could eat sandwiches together. 

The rest of the pack was allowed to come around, and Stiles even got to meet Cora finally. She was nice, but a little violent. Stiles really liked her. Actually, he liked the whole pack, they were friendly, and rowdy, and they made him feel more like a person and less like a weapon. 

Peter dropped by every now and then, but Deaton so far had kept his distance. Stiles found out from Scott it was because the Hales had told him to back off. He was Emissary to their pack, but he was also more involved with The Order, and they didn’t want him ruining things with Stiles by making him feel like he wasn’t a real person. 

Stiles appreciated that a lot, actually. 

He even got to go out every now and then. Usually only ever with Derek, but there was one night where the pack was going to a movie and they asked him to come. Derek only allowed it because he tagged along with them. The others did their best not to be weird about it, but Stiles could tell none of them knew how to interact with Derek. 

Kira was the only one who pretended like nothing was wrong, so when the movie started, Stiles made sure Derek was sitting between him and Kira. Having Stiles on one side of him helped with his nerves—and also because Stiles had been speaking with him for weeks—and having Kira on the other seemed to make him relax and feel less like a freak. 

It wasn’t until halfway through the second month, when Peter showed up with a bunch of exam papers and told Stiles he had until the end of the day to complete them, that he realized, quite startled, what had happened. 

He’d had a breakdown with Peter and had gone off on all the things he _wanted_ but could never have. Like friends, because he’d never had the opportunity to go out and make them. That night, people his age had shown up and he’d begun to form a friendship. He’d said he wanted to be treated like a real person and not a weapon, to go out and do things, not be locked away. The next morning, Derek had told him to take a break from training and had taken him out to breakfast. He’d insisted he wanted to be able to have fun, and Stiles had been allowed to have the pack over more often and had even gone out a few times with Derek. 

He’d also mentioned he wanted to graduate from high school, and now Peter was here with some exams for him to do and was sitting across from him at the table in the dining area while Stiles worked away on them. 

Peter couldn’t give him everything. He couldn’t give him his dad back. But he was giving him what he _could_ give him. Friends, and freedom, and _fun_ , and an education. Peter had listened to everything Stiles had said, and slowly, he’d tried to provide him with what he’d asked for in an attempt to make him feel more like a real person. 

“Are you done?” Peter asked without looking up and flipping a page in his book, because this revelation had made Stiles pause in the middle of a sentence. 

“No.” 

“Then hurry up, you’re running out of time.” 

“How are we going to do this, anyway?” Stiles asked with a sigh, dropping his pen. “I thought the plan was for people _not_ to know where I am. If you get me a diploma with these exams, doesn’t that just mean everyone will know I’m in Beacon Hills?” 

Peter looked up, his lips twitching, like he was about to smile. “We have a member of The Order in Tennessee who works for a high school. A member of the school board out there owes him a favour. He’s cashing it in to get you a diploma. Mieczyslaw Stilinski will graduate high school in California, but no one will know that.” 

“Oh.” Stiles already knew a lot of favours had been called in school-wise, considering his constant moves. He was grateful for the opportunity, because he’d been pissed as shit about not being able to graduate. “University’s out of the question, I take it?” 

“For now,” Peter agreed, arms crossed and leaning back in his seat. “Eventually, when you can hold your own, we can see about online courses. We just need to keep you off the map so the CIA can’t track you down.” 

It was still surreal that this was his life, but when he got distracted thinking about it, Peter cleared his throat and tapped his watch. Stiles went back to the exam he was working on, finishing it before his time was up and taking a short break before doing the next one. 

Derek was gone the entire time Stiles was doing his exams, but he showed up about an hour after he’d finished his last one with Chinese food and some movies. Peter smiled privately to himself while wishing them both a good night and Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him. Derek just offered him a shrug and an eye roll, then went to the kitchen to divvy up the food. 

The next day, Stiles was informed he’d graduated high school and his diploma was coming in the mail. Not directly to him, for obvious reasons, but through various Order members who would eventually get it to Deaton. 

Derek wanted him to take the day off to celebrate, but Stiles felt like he wasn’t progressing much in the whole magic area so he insisted he wanted to practice a bit more. He hung out in his train car with Derek lingering outside and when lunch came around and the Werewolf brought down the leftovers, Stiles called out to him before Derek could move away from the train car. 

“Wanna come in?” They usually exited the car to eat together, or sometimes Stiles stayed inside the car to eat, but having Derek in his space wasn’t as bad as it used to be. 

Derek hesitated at the hatch, watching Stiles get settled once more with his plate of food and bottle of water, then slowly walked into the train car. Stiles understood his hesitance. After all, this had kind of been Stiles’ personal space area since they’d moved in and to invite Derek in to it was probably a little unexpected. Hopefully not unwelcome, though. 

Moving up beside Stiles, Derek sat carefully, balancing his food and water, and then settled more comfortably, glancing over at Stiles out of the corner of his eye. Stiles just grinned and started eating his food, book open on the ground in front of him. He spoke to Derek about the spell he wanted to try out, motioning it in the book and letting Derek lean closer so he could read it over.

It was a kind of shield spell. It was supposed to act as a barrier between the caster and an attack, something invisible but sturdy. Stiles felt like that was the best spell to master first, because it would keep him safe from almost anything. It was apparently strong enough to hold against even a Werewolf’s claws, so that was comforting. Not that he expected to be attacked by Werewolves, but still, a good baseline. 

Derek tapped on the other book that Lydia had grabbed, but Stiles shook his head while he chewed Chow Mein. 

“Haven’t read that one yet. It’s more focussed on healing. This one’s protective.” Stiles nodded towards the open one. “Figured you’d rather I know how to protect myself over healing. No need to heal if I can protect, right?” 

Derek offered him a shrug, which he chose to interpret as, “Makes sense.” 

Stiles stared at the open book while he chewed, eyes skimming over the words a few times despite having them memorized by now. He just didn’t know how to proceed anymore. He’d only ever managed that one spell when Peter had been around, and he hadn’t even been able to do it _well_. He’d just always felt like he was more of a theory over practice kind of guy.

Another part of him just worried about the magic in general. He was scared of losing control. He’d been hurting people with the explosion of energy already, and he’d set the wall on fire in that hotel that one time. And now he was expected to just... _do_ it? And hope he didn’t bring the whole building crashing down on his head? On Derek’s? 

His scent must’ve shifted because Derek’s hand landed lightly on his knee. Stiles felt like he did that a lot when he wanted his attention.

Turning to the Werewolf, he offered him a smile he was sure Derek saw right through and shoved another bite of food in his mouth. While he chewed, Derek just kept staring at him, giving him an annoyed look that clearly showed he was waiting for Stiles to tell him what was wrong. 

When he finally swallowed, he just sighed and looked back at the book. “What if I do this and the building collapses because I like, I don’t know, pushed power outward instead of inward? I’m kind of flying blind here.” 

Derek had been in the middle of bringing his own bottle of water to his lips when Stiles spoke, and he paused for a second, tilting his head as if in understanding, and then promptly shifted to dump water over Stiles’ head. 

He let out a shout, mostly at the cold, and slapped at Derek’s hand until he pulled it back, wiping dripping water out of his eyes. 

“What the hell? What are you doing?” he demanded, annoyed at having water in his Chow Mein and on his clothes. 

Derek raised his eyebrows, then glanced at the book. Stiles followed his gaze, and had barely opened his mouth to say something when Derek just dumped more water over his head. 

“Are you serious?!” Stiles smacked at his hand again, but it was pointless since the bottle of water was empty now. “What the hell, my blankets are wet!” 

Derek snorted and brought one fist to his face, pretending to cry. Stiles just glared at him, feeling water sliding down his spine and through his hair uncomfortably. 

“There are easier ways, you know,” he said dryly, wiping water out of his eyes again before shaking his hands out. “I’m all wet now, great. You’re so immature.” 

That earned him a loud bark of laughter and Stiles shifted his gaze to Derek out of the corner of his eyes. Derek couldn’t speak, so he didn’t often make sounds, but Stiles felt like this was the first time he’d ever heard the Werewolf laugh. It was an interesting sound to hear, and it made his chest clench at the realization that this was probably the extent of the noise Derek was able to make. 

Evidently, Derek’s good humour at Stiles’ words died at the shift in emotions and the Werewolf watched him while slowly re-capping the bottle. Stiles glanced over at the book once more and sighed, raking a hand through his wet hair, causing it to stick up slightly. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “ _Fine_ , let’s go try it out in the open area. Don’t want to make the train car compress like a can of sardines and kill us both.” 

Derek’s lips twitched, like he was going to smile, but he obediently stood and took their dishes. They headed out of the train car together and Stiles went to stand where he’d been the last time he’d attempted magic while Derek headed upstairs to put the dishes away. 

Stiles had quickly learned that every time he pushed too hard to do magic, his hands would do weird things. Like have lines of electricity dancing beneath his skin, or the black shadows enveloping his hands and sliding up his arms. Sometimes fire would begin to spark in his fingertips, or his palms would go so blinding white he couldn’t look at them anymore. He didn’t know much about his magic, but he felt like most of it stemmed from his hands. 

He was still trying to get the shield to appear, the book explaining that it looked like the air was shimmering in front of the caster when it was activated, when he let out another loud shout and splutter when water landed on his head again.

Whipping around, he found Derek holding a glass in one hand, and a bucket of water in the other. He was clearly going to be refilling the glass and dumping it over his head at random times in an attempt to encourage him to get that shield up. 

“I am going to spend the whole day _soaked_ ,” he muttered angrily, turning to face Derek when the Werewolf went to sit against the sideways train car. 

Derek looked infinitely pleased with himself, as if throwing water at Stiles was going to be the highlight of his day.

Considering he usually just sat and did nothing while Stiles read books, it made sense he would find this entertaining. At least he was doing something. 

Stiles was going to have a miserable and _wet_ day. 

**TBC...**


	6. Friendly Visit

It took Stiles three days and at least a thousand glasses of water to get the shield to work. He would never forget how excited he got when Derek went to throw another glass of water at him and he brought one hand up to shield his face, only for the water to splatter against an invisible wall. 

He might have screamed like a little girl in excitement, jumping up and down and throwing both fists in the air. Derek had looked insanely pleased, even though the next time he’d tossed water at Stiles, he hadn’t managed to get the shield up in time. But it was nice, having Derek trying to help, even if Stiles felt like the Werewolf was getting a lot of enjoyment out of throwing water at him. 

Stiles spent far too long practising that one spell, even using it in the shower sometimes, just to make sure he had it down. He wasn’t perfect at it, but he could _do_ it, and that was the important thing. He used it occasionally around the house, mostly to annoy Derek. If they were in the kitchen making dinner and Derek was reaching for something, he’d put a shield around the item and Derek’s hand would freeze a few inches above it before turning to glare at Stiles. 

He was probably regretting helping him with the spell. 

But in the end, it was a good thing, because now that he could do the one spell, he was more confident trying more of the defensive spells in the Witch book. Lydia was right, in the end, that starting with the Warlock book had been detrimental to his learning. He’d spent more time focussed on not hurting people that he hadn’t been trying as hard as he should have. 

With the Witch magic, it was easier. Everything was more centred on keeping himself—and others—safe. Erecting barriers, casting perimeter spells, invisibility, things like that. It was easier, because Stiles knew that it wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

He wasn’t perfect at the protective spells by any stretch of the imagination, but in less than a month, he’d managed to do every single spell in the book. Some better than others, apparently. He wasn’t going to forget the day he was working on invisibility, since he didn’t usually tell Derek what spell he was working on. 

Derek had been flipping through the protection book, probably just for something to do, and had thoroughly panicked when he’d looked up and Stiles was gone. Stiles had spoken to insist he was still there, and Derek had sniffed him out and grabbed at him as if worried Stiles would just fade into nothingness without a grounding force. 

The stress Derek was expelling was doing nothing for Stiles’ ability to get visible again and he’d spent far longer trying to undo the spell than he’d spent _doing_ it. But the good news was, he could turn invisible fairly easily, so he tucked that into his back pocket for later. He’d almost wanted to test turning Derek invisible, but worried a bit more about that since Derek couldn’t speak and if something went wrong, Stiles may never find him again. He figured he could do something like that with Peter.

When Stiles woke up the morning after having completed the protective spells book, Derek was still passed out and snoring softly beside him. Stiles always found that the days where Derek was overly stressed and in hyper-protective mode meant he slept like a log that night, so he just slipped out of bed silently and headed downstairs to make breakfast. Derek didn’t rouse at the smell of it, so Stiles just eased his way out of the loft with a plate of food and some coffee and headed down to his train car. 

Derek had gotten better about letting him wander around inside the large building on his own, probably because he knew nothing was getting in without him knowing about it. Besides, Stiles was exceptionally loud, if he screamed, someone a mile away would hear him. And it was also kind of part of the whole ‘letting Stiles be normal’ thing Peter was enforcing. 

Things had been good. He’d been in Beacon Hills for almost three months, and so far so good. He was doing okay at the magic thing, for the most part given his lack of teacher, he got to hang out with people, and he had a pretty dope roommate. 

He still hadn’t seen much of Deaton since the man had been told to leave him alone, but he knew he’d have to speak to him again eventually. He figured he could get to work on some Druid magic after he was done with the healing part of Witch magic. Druid magic wasn’t offensive, and Stiles felt a lot more comfortable with things that didn’t hurt other people. 

Getting himself settled in for a long day of reading, since he always read the books cover to cover before trying anything, he set it up in front of himself on the blankets, plate in his lap, and took a bite out of his toast while flipping open the cover. 

He started to bypass the index when he paused, frowning slightly. There were a whole bunch of handwritten notes and asterisks beside some of the spells outlined in the index portion of the book. It was in blue pen, neat little print, and he set his plate aside to pull the book closer so he could read them. 

Some of them just said one word, like ‘useful’ or ‘helpful?’ and the like, but others had little mini sentences like, ‘could be a positive sign’ or ‘see if Deaton can work with this.’ 

It was the mention of Deaton that had him frown, because if the man was referenced, it meant those notes had been input by someone in the Hale pack. Maybe Talia? Stiles wasn’t sure, but he wondered what this person was looking for and ended up flipping to one of the pages referenced in the index to see if he could ascertain what they’d been working on.

His stomach dropped as soon as he recognized what he was reading. 

The spell he’d chosen looked like some kind of healing of the soul spell. Like a cleanse, almost, to rid someone of a powerful curse or aggressive magic. And there were notes all over the page, with portions underlined and little questions in the margins. 

He closed the book when he saw Derek’s name and realized, his heart clenching in his chest, that the handwritten notes belonged to Peter. 

Peter had said himself when Stiles had first met him that it was extremely annoying when someone being protected went against what their protector said. He’d been speaking to Derek at the time, but he’d looked upset while saying so. Like he blamed himself for the spell cast on his nephew, even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud. 

The little notes proved how hard Peter was working to find a way to break the spell. They didn’t seem to have any Witches in town, as far as Stiles was aware, but clearly Peter was just trying to find a spell that would _work_ , and would figure out the Witch problem later.

Except... they _had_ a Witch now, didn’t they? Sort of. Stiles was a Spark, he could do Witch magic. If they found the right spell, if they could just figure out how to break the curse... Stiles could do it. He could totally do it. 

He flipped the book back open, looking through the index at the ones Peter seemed to think were promising, and then went to read through those spells. His phone went off in his pocket a few times while he read, but he ignored it, scratching at the back of his head while he read over each spell, along with Peter’s notes. Some of the spells had only a few words here and there, and others had veritable paragraphs in the margins. 

It was obvious Peter had been working hard to try and find a reversal for Derek’s curse, and Stiles was pissed at himself for not having through of it himself sooner. He was a _Spark_ , he could do _anything_. And if he could do anything, he could break this curse. He could help Derek get his voice back! 

He was so engrossed in what he was reading, eyes skimming over the words at superspeed in his attempt to get them all into his brain faster, that he didn’t realize Derek was there until a hand fell onto his shoulder. 

Stiles started so violently he almost threw the book right into Derek’s face, but managed to avoid doing that and just snapped it shut. “What? Nothing! _You’re_ being weird!” 

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him, then looked down at the book Stiles was holding, as if wondering what he was reading to cause a reaction like that. He didn’t seem overly concerned when he realized it was one of the Witch books and straightened, pulling his phone out and waggling it. 

Frowning, Stiles realized he’d gotten messages he hadn’t checked and quickly pulled his own out. The home screen showed he had three from Scott, one from Isaac, and one from Peter. Peter’s was more of a ‘are you still alive over there?’ considering it came last and was probably only because he hadn’t replied to Scott’s or Isaac’s. 

Opening his messages, he cursed when he realized they’d had plans to grab lunch together. He’d been so distracted that he’d completely spaced. Derek had probably been woken up by his phone going off with people asking if Stiles was okay. 

“I forgot,” he muttered, tapping a response out to Scott and sending it before getting to his feet, still clutching the book. He didn’t think Derek seeing it would be a good idea. Not because he thought Derek knowing his uncle cared was a bad thing, but more because he didn’t want to have the constant reminder right in Derek’s face. He already knew he was cursed, seeing how it was affecting his family wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all Derek. 

He headed back upstairs with his dishes from the morning, Derek following silently behind him. Once he got shoes on and made sure he had everything, the two of them left, Derek holding Stiles’ upper arm lightly while they headed to the car. 

Derek had gotten better about Stiles being out of the loft, but he still got tense and protective the first few minutes until they were around others from the pack. Safety in numbers, he supposed. 

Stiles spoke to Derek during the drive to the diner, explaining everything he’d read that morning without making it obvious he’d been reading out of order. He usually always talked to Derek about what he was learning, and he knew it would be weirder if he _didn’t_ so he forced the words out. 

Reaching the diner, Stiles apologized to Scott and Isaac when he slid into the booth, Derek taking the seat beside him and perusing the menu. The other two didn’t seem bothered by it, and listened attentively while Stiles excitedly told them about his progress with the protective spells. He saw them frequently, and texted with them all the time, but this was the first time he’d seen them since finishing the full book of spells and it was kind of nice being able to be excited about something he’d originally hated. 

Stiles got so into his conversation that Derek had to nudge him four times to get his attention, Stiles still speaking while turning to look at him. Derek pointed at something on the menu, then thumbed over his shoulder where the bathrooms were. 

“Sure thing, big guy.” He patted Derek’s shoulder and the Werewolf stood to head for the washroom, confident Scott and Isaac—and likely Boyd in the back—would keep an eye on him until he got back. 

Stiles was still going off on all the magic he was learning to do, Scott and Isaac staring at him, but after a moment Isaac cut him off. 

“It’s weird.” 

“Well, I mean yeah, turning invisible is _totally_ weird, but—”

“No, not that. Him.” Isaac jerked his head in the direction Derek had disappeared in. “Derek.” 

“Derek is being weird?” Stiles turned, though the other man was nowhere in sight. 

“You don’t know Derek like we do,” Scott said softly. “He’s not... I mean, he’s kind of a dick. High and mighty, and always thinks he knows best. He never makes time for anyone, and he certainly isn’t friendly. You saw how he was that first day, with Deaton and Parrish. And now he’s... I don’t know. It’s just weird.” 

Stiles didn’t think Derek was a dick. He thought Derek was very private, and he was _definitely_ awkward, though how much of that was due to his curse Stiles wasn’t sure. But still, Derek was interesting. He was loyal, and honest, and he genuinely seemed to care about people. Not just Stiles, either, but everyone. 

“I think you guys were too focussed on treating him differently because he can’t talk that it made him standoffish.” Stiles shrugged. “He doesn’t have to worry about how weird everyone gets around him if no one is around him.”

Isaac winced at those words, and Scott’s expression turned guilty. “How do you even _do_ that?” Scott demanded. “Act like he isn’t different?” 

“Because he’s not?” Stiles said slowly, confused. “Derek and I still talk all the time. I mean, I know he can’t _talk_ , but he makes his thoughts known. He does the best he can given his circumstances, and he knows I’m working on understanding him. I don’t know, I feel like I can figure him out relatively easily as a whole.” He shrugged and leaned back in his seat. “What’s his deal with Parrish, anyway?” 

Isaac shook his head, and before Stiles could ask what was up, Derek slid back into the seat beside him, looking around before turning back to Stiles. 

“Nah, no one’s come by yet,” Stiles informed him. “You gonna change your order?” 

Derek inclined his head, as if in thought, then flipped the menu back open. 

Stiles noticed Isaac and Scott share a glance, and wondered if they really _couldn’t_ read Derek like he could, or if they’d just never really tried. After all, it was entirely possible this was a whole Stilinski-Hale sworn oath thing. Then again, maybe it was also just exposure. Stiles had spent virtually every waking moment since his father’s death with Derek, so maybe he was just used to his manner of communication by now. 

When the waitress came by to take their orders, Stiles noticed Derek did end up deciding to switch it up, because he got something different than what he’d originally pointed out. That worked out well for Stiles, because he’d been debating getting Derek’s original order, and now he could pick off Derek’s plate since his meal didn’t have fries and Derek’s did. 

Not that he expected Derek to share, but Stiles was good at getting food out of the guy. It was a talent, really. A gift, if you would. Stiles and food were a match made in heaven. 

Stiles listened to Isaac and Scott talk about their upcoming plans. Isaac was looking for a new job in town and debating picking up Scott’s at the animal clinic since he was going to have to cut back on his hours when school started up in the coming weeks. Scott himself was debating whether or not he wanted to do online courses since his university offered them, but they weren’t really in line with his major. It only occurred to Stiles a little while later that everyone’s plans for their lives were changing because of his presence. It made him a little annoyed, because he’d derailed enough lives without adding two more. 

He knew it was a pack thing, though. Stiles was in their pack now, considering Derek’s protectiveness and the fact that he was their Alpha, so the Betas around him were closing ranks to keep theirs safe. He appreciated that, but also hated it. 

When they were done their meals and chatting about an upcoming movie they wanted to bring Stiles to, their waitress came by with the bill and a large manila envelope. It was big enough to hold a large certificate, complete with ‘do not fold’ on the side, and Stiles jolted at the realization that his high school diploma hadn’t arrived yet. Well, hadn’t until that moment, anyway. 

“Derek Hale?” 

Derek cocked an eyebrow at the waitress and she handed over the envelope. “This was just dropped off for you.” 

He grunted in thanks, Stiles actually vocalising the word, and then took the envelope. He scowled at it, as if not liking it for some reason, but Stiles just did grabby hands at it. Derek rolled his eyes and handed it over, Stiles excitedly tearing it open. When he peeked inside, it only had another smaller envelope and he deflated. 

“Oh, it’s actually for you.” He held it back out to Derek.

Frowning, Derek looked into the envelope and pulled out the smaller one. It only had Derek’s name on it in neat print, but something about it had Derek baring his teeth. Everyone at the table froze at the deep, guttural sound escaping the back of the Werewolf’s throat. 

“Is everything okay?” Stiles asked uncertainly. 

Derek glanced at him, then the letter before shoving it into his pocket. He looked at Stiles and tapped the bill, clearly denoting he wanted the waitress to come back. 

“Oh, sure.” Stiles craned his neck back to look for her and flagged her down when he got her attention. 

She returned with a card machine, Derek paying quickly and then shoving himself out of the booth before the woman had even finished handing his card back. He turned and reached in for Stiles, almost dragging him out of the booth with the grip he had on his arm. 

“Ow, _ow_ ,” Stiles insisted, Derek loosening his grip. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” 

“Do you need us to come with you?” Scott asked, hurrying out of the booth while putting his own wallet away. Isaac was still paying, looking a little concerned at being left behind when their Alpha was clearly distressed. 

Derek turned to point at finger at Scott, making him freeze. 

“Uh, I think that’s Derek speak for don’t follow,” Stiles offered, even as Derek continued tugging him out the door. “Chat later!” he called over his shoulder. 

Derek’s head was swivelling while they hurried to the car, and Stiles noticed a tinge of red around his irises. Whatever the letter was, whoever it was from, was making Derek unhappy and nervous. 

They got into the car and Derek immediately started it. Stiles expected them to head straight home, but they didn’t. Instead, Derek drove around town for a little while, and then finally stopped the car in front of Stiles’ old home. The one they’d spent the first night back in town in. 

“Uh, Derek?” 

Derek didn’t acknowledge him and climbed out, motioning for Stiles to do the same. He obeyed, unsure of what was going on, and followed beside Derek up the front steps to the door. They entered the house, Derek having input the code on the keypad, and the Werewolf shut and locked only the lock that could be opened from outside. He also disengaged the alarm so it wouldn’t go off, but didn’t re-activate it like he usually did. 

When the Werewolf turned back to him, he gave Stiles a quick once-over, then tapped at Stiles’ left leg. Stiles looked down at it, then back up, not understanding. Derek looked frustrated, more red bleeding into his eyes, then jogged on the spot and motioned Stiles. 

“Can I run?” he deduced. When Derek stopped, Stiles took that as a yes. “I mean, yeah, if I have to. I’m not _fast_ or anything.” 

Derek waved that off, looking around the house, then headed for the back, touching Stiles’ shoulder to make him follow. He glanced out into the backyard, then turned back to Stiles and motioned his pocket. 

Stiles pulled his phone out and Derek pointed to himself. Hesitating, Stiles opened his contacts and scrolled through them to Peter. When he held it out to Derek, and the Werewolf didn’t react negatively, he pressed the call button and put it to his ear. 

_“Hello, little Spark. It’s been a while.”_

“Hey. Derek’s acting weird,” Stiles offered, since he had no idea what else to say. 

_“Weird how?”_ Peter asked, sounding distracted, like he didn’t think this warranted his complete attention. 

“We were at the diner in town, and he got a letter. He bared his teeth at it before ushering me out of there and now we’re in my old house and he wants to know if I can run. I’m guessing we’re trying to throw someone off our trail and we’re gonna run back to the loft or something, while making it look like we’re taking up residence here.” 

_“Hm,”_ was all Peter said for a good minute. Derek was glaring at the phone, but before Stiles could prompt him to continue, the other man spoke. _“I’m out of town at the moment. I’ll head back. Cora should be home, I’ll ask her to get the pack together and do a sweep of the area.”_

“Okay, thanks.” 

_“Be safe, little Spark.”_

Stiles hung up, not sure what else to say to that. When he had his phone back in his pocket, Derek pulled open the back door and got them onto the deck. He scanned the area before letting Stiles exit, and locked the door behind him. It had the same keypad type of lock as the front door, so it was easy to lock from the outside. 

He seemed really on edge, and Stiles wasn’t sure if he should be worried or terrified. 

He settled for worried, because terrified was a bit much when he had no idea what was going on. He was sure Derek wished he could explain, given how frustrated he looked, but he seemed to be doing all right because Stiles was following all his instructions. 

They moved quickly to the back fence where Derek practically hurled Stiles onto the other side, then vaulted over it like it was nothing. He let Derek lead the way, the two of them running slowly through a few backyards. It occurred to him that the reason Derek had waved away his comment about not being able to run fast was because this wasn’t about the speed, it was about the distance. 

Every time they hit a fence, Derek would bend down to let Stiles put one foot in his interlocked hands and then throw him over. He landed on his feet, more often than not, but Derek was much stronger than him and he still fell over every few throws. Derek was always there to yank him back to his feet, though. 

“Shouldn’t we call someone?” Stiles asked. “To drive us back, I mean?” 

Derek’s lack of an attempt to answer meant the answer was no. He probably didn’t want any recognizable cars going to the loft, or it would mean someone finding the place. Stiles was pretty okay about not having anyone know where they lived, so he just let Derek lead the way. 

They mostly stuck to backyards, occasionally running across streets, until they reached the forest. Beacon Hills had a huge Preserve that almost entirely surrounded their town, and the back of the loft faced the woods. They could cut through without being seen and make it back there relatively quickly. 

Derek slowed the pace once they were in the trees, but Stiles did his best to keep it relatively quick since he could tell his friend was getting nervous having them outside for so long. Stiles was definitely going to work on breaking Derek’s curse, because being able to talk about what was going on would’ve been doing _wonders_ for his nerves. 

He tried not to keep track of time, so he wasn’t sure how long it took them to get back. They came out behind the large building the loft was in, Derek leading the way around the front after making sure the coast was clear. He unlocked the door quickly and pushed Stiles inside before slamming it shut and locking all the deadbolts. 

Taking Stiles’ arm, much more gently than earlier, he led the way through the bottom floor and did a full sweep before heading for the stairs. Once they were in the loft, he did the same thing, dragging Stiles along with him until he was sure they were alone before finally releasing him. 

Stiles’ clothes were damp and sticky with sweat, his hair matted down with it, and his breathing still a little ragged. Derek, the rat bastard, still looked like a fucking model. He hadn’t even broken a damn sweat. Werewolves were unfair. 

“You gonna tell me what’s going on, big guy?” Stiles asked, watching Derek pace the length of the loft, staring at the large windows and clearly agitated. “Hey.” Stiles stood in his path, one hand landing lightly in the middle of his chest to make him stop. “Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?” 

Derek growled, eyes tinging red again, but he just turned to look out the window again before moving quickly to the table. 

The dictionary had taken up residence there, along with the pen and notebook. Stiles hurried to follow him, watching him pull open the dictionary. He only flipped to two words. 

_recognize smell_

“You recognize the smell? On the letter, you mean?” Stiles frowned. “Guessing that’s a bad thing.” 

Derek just growled again before heading for the window once more. Stiles moved to sit at the table, figuring Derek was going to be skulking around for a while. His eyes landed on the Witch book he’d brought up earlier, but he didn’t move to pick it up. He just shifted his gaze back to the dictionary, a part of him wanting to ask if it was Kate before deciding he didn’t want to aggravate Derek. 

When he heard a ripping sound, he turned and saw Derek with his back to him. It looked like he’d just opened the letter and immediately, Derek sneezed. 

Stiles jerked to his feet when yellow powder began drifting to the ground, having been inside the envelope, and his heart clenched with fear. Shit, was it wolfsbane?! Was Derek about to go into shock or something?! 

“Derek?” 

The Werewolf whipped around at the sound of his voice, fear etched into every facet of his face. Just as quickly, it was gone, his eyes scanning the area urgently before he growled, low and threatening, locking eyes with Stiles once more. 

They were fully red and Stiles slowly eased himself around the table, watching the Werewolf nervously. 

“Derek? Buddy?” 

Stiles let out a loud curse when Derek roared and then charged at him. He leapt clear over the table, Stiles scrambling to get around it and racing for the couch. He vaulted over it, foot almost catching before he made it to the other side, but Derek was much faster than him. The Werewolf jumped clean over the couch _and_ Stiles so that when they were both on the other side of the couch, Derek was right in front of him. 

He swiped one hand out, catching Stiles in the chest with sharp claws, tearing into his skin. Stiles let out a shout and just barely managed to avoid severe injury by falling backwards over the couch again. His chest burned, he could feel blood, and he scrambled back to his feet, racing for the door. 

Derek was right behind him, and Stiles knew he wasn’t going to get the door open before the Werewolf reached him, so he changed course and flew around the table again. When Derek’s claws caught him in the left shoulder blade, Stiles let out another cry of pain, foot catching on the end of a chair. He fell hard, skidding on the floor, and with Derek so close, he knew he didn’t have time to get back up.

Rolling onto his back, Stiles had never wished so badly for his magic to work, and he threw his hands up. When Derek slashed at him, all Stiles heard was nails on a chalkboard, the Alpha’s claws scratching along the shield he’d erected. 

“Derek!” Stiles shouted, even as the Werewolf roared again and started pounding both fists against the shield. Stiles could feel it weakening, because he wasn’t exactly an _expert_ at the spell. If it broke, if the shield shattered, he was fucking dead. Derek was going to pound those fists right through his fragile human skull. “Derek, snap out of it! _Derek_!” 

Either Derek couldn’t hear him through his rage-fuelled haze, or the Derek he knew wasn’t home. Stiles had no idea what the yellow powder was, but evidently nothing good, because he was _not_ equipped to deal with two-hundred plus pounds of pure Alpha Werewolf muscle bearing down on him like this! 

“Derek, stop! _Stop_! Snap _out_ of it!” Stiles had no idea if he could even do this, but desperate times and all. He only knew the one offensive spell, and he knew it wouldn’t hurt Derek, so keeping one hand up for the shield, he prayed trying two spells at once wouldn’t have the shield drop, waited for Derek to raise his fists up, and then thrust his other hand out. 

Derek flew off him, slamming clean through the wall and into the kitchen. Bits of concrete and rubble rained down on him, and Stiles was pretty sure he’d just broken their fridge, but fuck if he cared. 

Scrambling to his feet, he backed away quickly, his chest and shoulder burning, his hands turning black from the stress and his breathing erratic. Derek didn’t move for so long that Stiles was terrified he’d _killed_ him, but before the fear could set in too much, he heard a groan and then rubble shifting. 

Stiles took a few steps further back, watching Derek slowly pull himself to his feet. He was covered in concrete dust and small pieces of rock, shaking his head and coughing. When he got his feet under him, he stumbled once, touching his chest, then turned to look at Stiles. 

Raising both hands defensively, heart pounding in his chest, Stiles watched Derek sweep the room, looking right through him, as if he wasn’t there. His eyes landed on the loft door and he growled, then he hurried towards it and wrenched it open so hard he broke it, the large metal door falling inward and hitting the ground with a loud smash. 

Derek let out another roar once he was in the stairwell and Stiles allowed him only a second’s head start before racing after him. 

“Derek! Derek, _wait_!” He stumbled down the stairs, but by the time he reached the bottom, the exit was hanging wide open and he raced over to it, looking out. 

Derek was nowhere to be seen. Stiles only took two steps out of the place before logic dictated he not be a fucking moron. 

“Derek!” he screamed again, looking around. He heard nothing in response. Wherever Derek had gone, he’d gone _fast_. “Fuck!” 

Stiles turned and hurried back into the building, shutting and locking the door, hands shaking with the adrenaline coursing through him. He had no idea what to do. He wanted to go out and chase Derek down, but he recognized that would probably be a _bad_ fucking idea, considering. Something had happened, that powder had-had _done_ something, and Derek had lost his fucking _mind_! 

“Shit. _Fuck_!” Stiles pulled his phone out and quickly hit redial, putting the phone to his ear, other hand in his hair and tugging. 

_“Little Spark, I told y—”_

“Something happened to Derek!” Stiles blurted out, beginning to pace. 

_“What do you mean?”_ Peter asked, his usual jovial-laced voice turning hard and serious. _“What happened?”_

“We made it back to the loft and he opened that letter he got at the diner. Some yellow powder shit came out of it, and he went _crazy_! He _attacked_ me, and then ran out of here like he was chasing someone!” 

_“He left you **alone**?”_ Peter demanded, sounding both furious and terrified. _“Are you hurt?”_

“I mean, _yeah_ ,” Stiles insisted, looking down at himself. The front of his shirt was stained red, and while he knew he wasn’t at risk of losing too much blood, he could see the wounds bleeding freely through the tears in his shirt. “He slashed me in the chest, and the shoulder. It’s bleeding a fair bit. But Derek—”

_“Don’t worry about Derek, the others can hunt him down. I’m on my way, but if you’re injured, we need that tended to. I’ll have Scott’s mother Melissa head over. She’s a nurse. Open the door for **no one** but her.”_

“Okay.” 

Peter hung up, so Stiles did too, staring down at his phone, hands still shaking from the adrenaline. He couldn’t feel too much pain yet, but knew it would come once the shock of what had happened wore off. Whatever that yellow powder was, clearly it was nothing good. 

Not wanting it around for any more Werewolves to breathe in, Stiles headed back upstairs quickly, shoving his phone into his pocket, and went into the loft. It was kind of a mess, the table cracked down the middle and out of place, the couch in disarray and a few inches off from where it used to be and, oh yeah, the giant fucking _hole_ in the wall leading to the kitchen. 

Stiles figured cleaning up would give him something to do to keep the panic at bay. And he knew he was going to panic soon.

Derek hadn’t left his side since this had all started. Sure there had been brief stints where Derek had gone off to see his sister and Peter was around, or other members of the pack, but for the most part, it was always Derek. And he would never, _ever_ leave Stiles alone. _Ever_. The fact that he had, and that he’d left the door _wide open_ was a huge concern.

Stiles felt like he’d been hallucinating. Derek had seen something that wasn’t real, and he thought Stiles wasn’t there. He never would’ve let the door hang open like that if he’d known Stiles was still in the house, and the way he’d looked right through him... 

Trying not to panic, and trusting the pack to find Derek, Stiles went to grab some paper towels from the kitchen. He wet a bunch of them before heading back over to where the yellow powder was. He didn’t know if it affected humans and Werewolves alike, so he held his breath while he wiped it up with the damp paper towels, wanting to ensure he got all of it.

He left the soiled paper towels on the floor, heading back to the kitchen to both breathe and grab a plastic bag to put the trash in, when he heard loud knocking from downstairs. 

Pausing a few feet out of the kitchen, he waited to be sure he hadn’t imagined it, and when he heard it again, it sounded more urgent. 

“Derek?” Stiles hurried out of the loft and down the stairs. “Derek, is that you?” 

“Stiles?” 

It was a woman’s voice, which had Stiles deflate slightly, but at least she was coming to help him with his injuries. He knew the pack would find Derek, he’d just kind of been hoping he’d come back on his own. Snap out of whatever haze he was in and rush back to Stiles. 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, still holding the plastic bag, he inched a bit closer to the door. Stiles wasn’t an idiot, he wasn’t going to open the door to just _anyone_. 

“Who are you?” 

“Stiles, is that you?” the woman asked again. 

“Who _are_ you?” he demanded again, getting frustrated with the fact that every time he asked people who they were, they responded by asking him who _he_ was. 

“My name is Melissa. I was told you were hurt.” 

“What’s your last name?” Stiles demanded, just to be sure. After all, Peter had only said her first name on the phone, and just in case anyone malicious was listening in on his call, he wanted to be absolutely sure. 

“Melissa McCall. Please let me in, I need to check your injuries.” 

Letting out a slow breath, Stiles moved up to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open enough to look out at the woman on the other side. 

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but she looked younger than his mind had supplied. He felt it was probably because he’d expected her to be closer to his dad’s age, since he and Scott were the same age. Evidently she’d either aged well, or had Scott young, because she didn’t look any older than thirty-five, if that. 

Her hair was dark brown, like Scott’s, and her eyes were brown, but her skin was extremely pale. Given Scott’s darker complexion, he’d assumed she’d have a bit more colour to her, but maybe Scott had gotten that from his father’s side of the family. 

She offered him a small smile, holding up a First Aid kit, and he moved back to let her in. Once she was through the door, she shut it behind herself and gave him a once-over before letting out a small laugh. 

He didn’t find that very appropriate, but said nothing. 

“He did a number on you, didn’t he?” 

“He wasn’t himself,” Stiles insisted defensively. 

“No, he wasn’t,” she agreed. When she motioned the stairs, Stiles obediently turned to head up them, the pain in his chest and shoulder intensifying now that the adrenaline had mostly worn off. 

She hummed to herself while following behind him, and he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of nurse she was considering she was acting like none of this was a big deal. His injuries sure _felt_ like a big deal, but maybe he was just biassed because he was in pain. 

Once they were back in the loft, she ignored the door that had been ripped off, eyes on the destroyed kitchen wall. Her previously happy expression closed off slightly before she turned to eye Stiles. He frowned at her, wondering what her deal was, but she was quick to rally and smile once more, motioning the wall.

“That looks bad. What happened there?”

“I threw Derek through it,” he informed her with a slight wince. 

“You did?” She eyed him for a moment longer, hummed once in thought, then motioned for him to sit on the couch. 

He did as instructed, the woman moving to sit beside him and opening the First Aid kit. He was a little underwhelmed at the sight of it, it didn’t look like it had much of anything useful in it barring some gauze. He’d been expecting a nurse to have a bit more... well, he didn’t know, but he was starting to wonder about Beacon Hills’ hospital, if he was being honest. 

“Let’s have a look, then,” she said, motioning his shirt. 

Stiles obediently pulled it off, wincing at the twinge in his shoulder. His chest felt pretty okay, it didn’t hurt to shift around much, but his shoulder burned with every movement and he worried about how deep into the meat Derek’s claws had gone. He didn’t blame him, of course not. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know what the yellow powder was, but he was actually getting a little nervous about where Derek was right now. 

He hoped Peter or someone else in the pack had found him. 

Once the shirt was off, he watched Scott’s mother inspect his chest. Her eyes were bright, and she was staring at him like he was a fresh piece of meat. That made him extremely uncomfortable, and he made a mental note to ask Scott what his mom’s deal was. 

“Fascinating,” she said, reaching forward and pressing her fingers against the wounds in his chest. 

Stiles jerked back, because not only had it stung, but she hadn’t even washed her hands or put on gloves or anything. What kind of healthcare professional _was_ she, anyway? 

She let out a startled laugh when he pulled back and held both hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. I got distracted.” 

“What’s fascinating?” Stiles demanded, ignoring her half-assed apology. How had Scott turned out so awesome with such a weird and somewhat rude mother? Must’ve gotten it from his dad’s side. 

“Just—this.” She started to reach out again and Stiles shifted back, her hand hovering awkwardly between them. She still had some of his blood on her fingers. “He hurt you. I honestly didn’t think he would ever hurt you.” 

“He wasn’t himself,” Stiles repeated, a little aggravated. He didn’t really like her, he wanted her to get working and get out. “Should I go clean off some of this blood?” 

“Yes, please. Do that.” She smiled brightly at him, the smile all teeth. 

Nodding, and feeling more uncomfortable than he had a moment ago, he stood and dropped his shirt onto the couch, then headed for the bathroom. When he entered it, he turned to shut the door a little bit for some semblance of privacy, and froze when he saw the woman on the couch stick her bloody fingers in her mouth, inhaling deeply while sucking on them. 

Stiles liked to think he was pretty smart, and seeing _that_ made him feel like he’d made a horrible, terrible mistake. 

Because he doubted very much that Scott’s mother would be sucking on his blood like it was chocolate. 

Shutting the door entirely, Stiles winced while trying to engage the lock as quietly as possible. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded or not, but he turned on the tap to make a bit of noise and give the appearance of him washing off the blood, then looked around.

He already knew the small window in the bathroom wouldn’t do him any good, but he climbed into the shower anyway and looked through it. The window didn’t open, and was a good four stories off the ground, not to mention tiny as shit. Stiles wasn’t huge or anything, but nobody except a small child could fit through that window. 

“Shit,” he hissed, pulling his phone out and getting his messages open. He went to the one he had with Peter and glanced at the door when he heard springs creak, hoping whoever the fuck that lady was had just shifted and not actually _stood_.   
  
**[Stiles]**  
I think I’m in trouble  
**[Stiles]**  
and by think I mean I KNOW I’m in trouble

Peter’s response was almost instantaneous, as if he’d been waiting for him to send a message. 

**[Peter]**  
What is it? 

**[Stiles]**  
a woman showed up  
**[Stiles]**  
I made her confirm her name through the door  
**[Stiles]**  
she said she was melissa mccall  
**[Stiles]**  
but I am positive she isn’t 

**[Peter]**  
I’m coming  
**[Peter]**  
I have Derek

Seeing that last sentence made relief flood through Stiles. Derek was coming. Derek was okay, and he was coming. And Peter was coming, too. He was going to be okay. 

Stiles tensed and almost dropped his phone into the toilet when there was a knock at the door. 

“Stiles? Is everything okay?” The handle jiggled, like she’d tried to open the door. 

He had no idea who she was, or _what_ she was, and while he’d love to stay in the bathroom and wait for Peter and Derek, he also knew that if she was Supernatural, she could break the door down easily. And she’d know he knew she wasn’t who she’d said she was. 

His best bet for now was to pretend he didn’t think anything was amiss. If he could just pretend to believe her and play along until Peter and Derek showed up, it was better than her knowing he was aware she was lying and probably getting _more_ injured. 

“Yeah, sorry.” He shoved his phone back into his pocket and hastily splashed water over his front, most of it landing on his jeans. “I just got distracted staring at the wounds.” 

“Hurry up, we don’t want anything getting infected.” 

“Right.” He didn’t try very hard to get himself cleaned up, just enough so she’d believe he’d been _doing_ so, and then shut the water off. He grabbed one of the smaller hand towels off the rack and winced while he patted it against his chest. He couldn’t comfortably reach the wound on his back, but figured he could deal with that when the _real_ Melissa McCall showed up.

Putting one hand on the knob after silently unlocking the door, he let out a slow breath, put his game face back on, and pulled open the door. He offered the woman a tight smile while walking out of the bathroom, motioning his front. 

“Clean enough?” 

“It’ll do,” she confirmed, moving slightly so he’d pass her to head back to the couch. 

It was that slight movement that caught his attention, and he turned just in time to throw one hand up and fall on his ass when her hand slammed against the shield he’d erected. He scrambled backwards, shield still up, and watched the woman curse and inspect the syringe he’d just broken. 

“Dammit,” she muttered. “And I was so hoping we could do this the easy way.” 

Stiles scrambled to his feet, moving around the couch to put some space between them while she tossed the broken needle aside, clearly annoyed. 

“Who are you?” he demanded, watching her slow progress back towards the couch and around it. He moved away from her around the other side, the two of them making slow circles with the couch between them. 

“No one you need to worry yourself with. It’s nothing personal, this is just a job. I get rid of the wolf, deliver you to my employer, and he’s agreed to give me as many samples of you as I want.” 

Stiles was _positive_ he’d misheard her. “What?” 

“Blood, hair, skin, maybe even a finger if I’m lucky.” Her grin was vicious. “After all, who knows what kind of magic I can get out of you. It’s never been tried before, you see. The possibilities are endless, and I would _love_ the opportunity to be the first to attempt to steal some magic from a Spark.” 

Why couldn’t Stiles have been born a Werewolf? Or a Witch, even? Just a regular, boring old Witch. Or a human! Human was even better! He’d have _loved_ to be born a human, but _no_. Instead, he had to be born this super special rare awesome thing that meant everyone and their fucking _mother_ wanted a piece of him.

In this crazy lady’s case, _literally_. 

“If you come near me, I’ll blow you right through a wall like I did Derek,” Stiles reminded her, motioning towards the kitchen with a nod of his head, eyes still locked on her. 

“Please.” She rolled her eyes and let out a mocking laugh. “You have no control over your abilities. That you managed to do _that_ is already a miracle.” 

She wasn’t wrong, but Stiles _hated_ that she wasn’t wrong. Clearly his lack of practice had been noticed somehow. He didn’t know _how_ , considering he’d been locked up with Derek for weeks, but maybe this chick could see through walls, who knew? 

“We can do this with minimal pain on your side,” the woman said with a faux-kind smile, “or with an extremely large amount of pain. Your call.” 

Stiles answered her threat by raising his hands and erecting his shield again. He’d originally thought of trying to blast her all the way to Canada, but he honestly didn’t trust himself not to _kill_ her. He could’ve killed Derek, and he _liked_ Derek. Using a powerful spell on this lady was just asking for him to accidentally murder someone.

Accidental murder, was that a thing?

Either way, he didn’t want to do it. 

“Cute trick,” the woman said, eying the shimmer in front of Stiles. “Know this one?” 

Stiles didn’t know if the shield was faulty, if it wasn’t strong enough to repel this, or if the sight of it had made him lose enough control for her to win this round, but the second she pulled a gun out and fired at him, pain exploded through his shoulder and he jerked backwards at the force of the impact. 

It felt like it took a second for the full extent of pain to register, because he _felt_ it, and when he glanced at his shoulder, he could see the hole in his skin, blood beginning to flow freely from the wound, but he felt like it still took an additional five seconds before the pain of it _really_ hit. 

Somehow, the shock of it made him avoid crying out, but he did let out a sharp, horrified exhale before he slapped a hand to his skin. It was slick with blood in seconds, and he stumbled back a few steps until he hit the wall, eyes wide and rising back to the woman, who was tucking her gun away, looking satisfied. 

“Jennifer.” 

Stiles’ head whipped towards the door, and dread filled his lungs like water. There was an unknown man standing in the doorway, and it took Stiles a few seconds to realize—they hadn’t locked the door. The woman—Jennifer, apparently—had entered the building behind him, and in his stupidity, he’d forgotten to check she’d locked the door. He’d thought she was Scott’s mother, so he’d _expected_ her to lock the door. 

He was so stupid. So, _so_ fucking stupid. 

“I need him in one piece,” the old man said, voice low and dangerous, eyes on Stiles like a hungry man eying a piece of prime rib. “I thought you were going to sedate him.” 

“He was causing problems,” Jennifer said, sounding irritated. “I told you to wait for me to return.” 

“I like keeping an eye on my investments,” the man said, finally shifting his gaze away from Stiles to look at the bitch. “After all, what guarantee did I have that you would honour our arrangement and bring him back to me?” 

“I got his wolf out of the way, didn’t I? Led him right to your daughter, like you asked. I do hope she manages to keep a tighter leash on him this time, because he’s going to try and come for his helpless little friend and you did _not_ pay me to deal with that mess, Argent.” 

Stiles felt like his heart was pounding in his head. Each hard thump of it against his brain was making blood pulse out of the wound in his shoulder, and he felt light-headed and ready to pass out. Not because of blood loss, because he knew he would need to lose at minimum two and a half litres before he needed to worry and he was nowhere _close_ to that.

No, he felt light-headed and nauseous because this man’s name was _Argent_ , and he distinctly remembered Deucalion mentioning Argent Senior having killed Laura Hale. And in the same conversation, he’d mentioned that being good for _Kate_ , because Derek’s sister was out of the picture. And now Jennifer was mentioning delivering Derek into this man’s _daughter’s_ hands. 

Which meant Kate was here, and if Stiles hadn’t already received confirmation that Peter had Derek, he would’ve lost his fucking shit. He didn’t care about what happened to him right now, he would _not_ let Kate touch Derek. Not when he’d seen how terrified Derek had looked back in Deucalion’s basement. Not when he knew how scared Derek was of her. 

Stiles would be okay, he was sure. He could find a way out of this mess, probably. Maybe. Hopefully. But he’d figure something out, as long as Derek was safe and away from Kate. 

“Why don’t you deal with this problem first?” Argent asked, motioning Stiles. “I’m a busy man, and I have plans for him. Preferably without injuring him further, I don’t like when other people ruin my things.” 

It was easy calculating the distance between where Stiles stood and the door. Argent had moved a few steps further into the loft, and Jennifer was still on the other side of the couch. She looked athletic, but she was busy being irritated at Argent’s presence, and Argent himself was an old man. Stiles was pretty fast, and he knew the building better than they did. He could make it out of the loft and downstairs in seconds. If he couldn’t get out the door before Jennifer pulled out her gun again, he knew where he could hide until Peter showed up. 

The good news was they didn’t want him dead. Sure, Jennifer might shoot him, but nowhere vital. He just had to make it out of the loft, where they couldn’t trap him. There were two of them now, and he was injured. He was panicking too badly to do anything more than watch his hands turn black and tendrils of dark shadow creep up his arms. He didn’t know what those shadows were meant to _do_ , just that he doubted they’d be much good right now. 

Stiles hesitated for only a second, just long enough for Jennifer to turn away from him a little too much, and then he bolted for the door. Argent shifted, as if to move and block his path, but Stiles was faster and he managed to get around him and through the door at breakneck speed. He let out a shout of agony when he went too fast to stop and ended up slamming into the opposite wall, injured shoulder first.

His vision crackled white with pain and he almost fell down the first flight of stairs before managing to catch himself on the railing. His right hand slid along the metal, slick with blood from his attempt to cover his wounded shoulder, but he still managed to avoid falling head-first down them. He hurried around the corner at the bottom of the first flight and could hear Argent and Jennifer chasing after him. 

When he was almost at the ground floor, the world seemed to tilt at an angle and he lost his footing. He missed a step, thankfully sliding down a few stairs instead of falling head-first against them, and landed in a heap at the base of them. Everything was tilting at an impossible angle, his gorge was rising, and he felt like he was going to be sick. 

“Do I have to do _everything_ myself?” a new voice demanded. 

Stiles could see boots approaching him, but it looked like they were walking against the wall beside him, the world tilted at an impossible angle. He dry-heaved against the concrete floor. Or ceiling. Or wall, he wasn’t sure. Bile came up and he hacked it out of his throat, feeling spit sliding down his chin. 

“Aw, baby.” The woman who’d been walking towards him bent down beside him, one hand sliding into his hair and raking nails against his scalp. “It’s all right, just a little dizzy spell. You’re gonna be okay.”

Stiles clenched his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. He felt like his entire equilibrium had been knocked off-kilter and he realized, belatedly, that he knew what this was. This was one of the spells in the Witch book he’d been reading. It was one he’d only practised once, on Derek, because it was meant to incapacitate someone without injuring them. It had worked on the Werewolf, but he’d been out of sorts for a while afterwards and Stiles had never wanted to try it on him again, even though Derek had mimed that he didn’t mind. 

More bile came up his throat, Stiles coughing and spitting it out when Argent showed up behind him and said the woman’s name. 

“Kate. What happened to your pet?” 

“His pack showed up,” she said, her tone flat but Stiles could hear the bitterness in the way she delivered the statement. “The others are dealing with them. We should get him out of here before anyone comes looking.”

Stiles thought he might puke if only he had more in his stomach. As it was, all he managed was another pathetic dry-heave, spit still sliding down his chin and onto his bare chest when one arm was grabbed and he was hauled to his feet. He stumbled immediately, but Kate was right there to catch him, throwing his good arm over her shoulders while her father held fast to his other biceps. It was making his shoulder burn, given Argent was forcing him to remain upright by tugging on an arm with a bullet hole straight through it _and_ deep claw marks in the shoulder blade. 

He wished he could throw up. He wished he could do anything but let them easily drag him towards the door. He couldn’t even get his feet under him, let alone stop them from pulling him outside. 

The door was ajar, and Stiles could feel his heart pounding in his chest. If they took him out of here, no one would ever find him again. This wasn’t like last time, when Stiles had managed to knock everyone out by breaking the restrictor around his wrist and releasing his magic. He didn’t have Derek, or a member of the Order, or anything. 

This was Stiles, alone, at the mercy of whatever the fuck Jennifer was, and a Witch who seemed to know enough magic to easily incapacitate him _and_ curse Derek to silence for the rest of his life. This was the man who’d killed Derek’s sister, an Alpha Werewolf, who’d probably put up one hell of a fight.

Stiles was screwed. Fucking _screwed_! 

The door was pushed open, Kate and Argent dragging his unresponsive form through it, and then paused. Jennifer almost walked into them, but managed to stop herself. She’d been so close that Stiles felt her rock back against his skin. 

That was when he heard the sound of a shotgun being cocked, and despite how much his vision swam, he managed to look up.

An unfamiliar woman was swimming in and out of focus, aiming a shotgun right at them. He couldn’t see much of her face in his vertigo-induced state, but he could tell by her frame alone that she was _pissed_.

“Let him go. Now.” 

“Come now,” Argent said, sounding amused. “You can’t honestly think that’s going to work. I have a Darach and a Witch with me. You have a shotgun. I would imagine even you can recognize when you’re outgunned.” 

“I don’t only have a shotgun,” the woman said darkly. 

Stiles only had a moment to understand what that meant before something big and on _fire_ slammed into him and his two captors from the left. Stiles was pretty sure he blacked out when he hit the ground, but he couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few seconds, because when his vision swam back into focus, everything was right-side up again and his shoulder positively _screamed_ with agony. 

He forced himself to work through the pain and managed to get onto his hands and knees, struggling to get his feet under him and stumbling away from the mass of bodies. Something huge and _literally_ on fire was fighting against an invisible barrier that was protecting Kate and her father. 

Jennifer was nowhere to be seen, and Stiles figured she’d cut her losses and bolted, but the woman with the shotgun was firing at something around the side of the building and rushing forward, clearly trying to shoot at someone running around back and into the woods. Presumably, that was Jennifer. 

“Stiles, in the building!” 

Stiles turned quickly towards the firey beast still beating relentlessly against the weakening shield protecting Kate and her father and realized, quite startled, that it was fucking _Parrish_.

“Stiles, _now_!” he bellowed, the flames intensifying slightly before subsiding. 

Without any further prompting, Stiles turned and stumbled towards the door, using the wall for support since his balance was still shot to shit. He managed to get through the door and slammed it shut behind himself, locking it up tightly and almost falling on his ass when he backpedalled towards the stairs. 

He could still hear the shotgun going off outside, as well as the curses and shouting from Argent, Kate and Parrish, so he knew things were heating up. 

Literally, considering Parrish. 

Stiles wasn’t entirely sure if the light-headedness was from the spell or the blood loss, because his shoulder was still streaming a steady flow of blood, and his chest hadn’t stopped since this whole thing had started. 

Turning, he tripped on his way up the stairs, trying to grab at the railing with his good hand, but the blood still on it was more slick than sticky. He figured it wasn’t dry enough to have moved into the sticky stage yet. 

It seemed to take him an eternity to reach the loft, and he felt like he could hardly breathe. Belatedly, he realized he was having a bit of a panic attack. That couldn’t be good, considering the injuries and the blood loss. He really couldn’t be having a panic attack right now. 

“Calm down,” he ordered himself, moving slowly through the loft to get to the bathroom, still breathing much harder than was wise. “Calm down, calm _down_.” Surprisingly, ordering himself to calm down was _not_ helping him _actually_ calm down. 

He made it into the bathroom, vision swimming again from the lack of oxygen, and slammed the door shut before locking it and leaning heavily into it. His entire body burned, his shoulder was a constant scream of agony, and when he clenched his eyes shut, it still felt like the world was spinning. He knew it was probably a side-effect of what Kate had done to him, considering how Derek had fared after Stiles’ practice, but he also suspected it was the panic. 

“Stop it, _stop_ ,” he ordered himself, sliding to the ground and struggling to get himself back under control. He felt pathetic for reacting like this, but he knew it was shock. He’d been attacked by an Alpha Werewolf who, to date, had been overly protective of him to the point of almost annoyance. And then he’d been shot, and dragged out of the building, and now he was sitting alone in a bathroom with blood oozing from various injuries, his shoulder completely fucked, and no idea what was happening beyond the safety of the outer door. 

He wanted Derek. 

Well, no, he wanted his dad, but he couldn’t have him, and he knew it, so his brain immediately went to the next person he felt safest with. And that was Derek.

It didn’t matter that the Werewolf had slashed at him, he knew it was Jennifer’s fault, not Derek’s. He was the one person Stiles wanted right now, because he didn’t trust anyone else. Derek had never wanted anything from him, and he’d always acted in Stiles’ best interest, even when he was being an asshole about it. Stiles just wanted him to come back. 

He tensed when he heard footsteps clambering up the stairs, feeling his heart beginning to pound a staccato rhythm of fear in his chest. He was sure he’d locked the door. Positive, even. So how were people coming again? 

“Stiles!” 

Right. Because some people had keys. 

He heard the footsteps pound towards the bathroom and the door was quite literally wrenched off. It was a good thing he was on Stiles’ side, otherwise he would’ve been screwed. 

Peter let out a vicious curse when Stiles almost fell out of the bathroom from losing the door, given he’d been leaning against it, but the older man was quick to grab at him to stop him from falling over entirely. He was sitting down, at least, so the fall would’ve been shorter. 

The Werewolf’s eyes were bright blue and he was snarling angrily. Stiles thought for a moment he was mad at _him_ , but realized after a few seconds that he was pissed Stiles was so injured. 

“Bring him here,” a woman’s voice ordered. 

Stiles’ eyes shifted to the figure by the kitchen table, who was quickly righting some chairs and clearing off an area with a sweep of her hand. It was the woman who’d been holding the shotgun downstairs, and when she dropped a massive medical bag on the table before rushing into the destroyed kitchen, Stiles realized that _this_ must be Melissa McCall. 

“Come on, Stiles. Up.” 

He let out a grunt when Peter pulled him to his feet, but managed to keep his balance while he was urged towards the table. Peter helped him sit, still looking furious, while the water ran in the kitchen. Stiles figured Melissa, being a _real_ medical professional, was washing her hands. 

She returned quickly, Peter having already opened her medical bag, and she snapped at him to get out of her way while she pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and went to sit in the chair beside Stiles’.

“Let’s take a look,” she said, her tone softer when she spoke to Stiles. 

It hurt. A lot. Having her poking and prodding, regardless of how gentle she was being. She ended up getting Peter to help her, since the gunshot wound was being a bit of a bitch considering it was a through and through. 

Stiles tried his best to just disassociate while they worked on getting him cleaned up. The hem of his jeans were soaked by the time they were done, since they kept having to clean the wounds up while Melissa worked on patching him up. The one in his chest wasn’t as bad as he’d originally thought, and Melissa just slapped a few butterfly bandages on them. The bullet wound was harder, but she ended up using an occlusive bandage on the smaller entry wound in front, and stitches in back where it was a bit wider. She also had to stitch up the claw marks in his shoulder, and ended up ripping through one of Derek’s shirts to make a make-shift sling for him. 

She promised she’d bring him a real one as soon as possible, but mentioned he wouldn’t get much use out of his left arm for a while. Showering was going to be a huge pain, too. 

When she was packing her things away after making sure Stiles was fully patched up and as clean as they could get him without taking his pants off, he finally turned to Peter to ask the question he’d been wanting to ask basically since the man had arrived. 

“Where’s Derek?” 

“He’s fine, he’s with the pack,” Peter said, eyes burning into Stiles’ chest as if he could heal the wounds by staring hard enough. 

When Stiles opened his mouth to ask to be taken wherever Derek was, he heard the outer door bang open downstairs. Melissa jumped and Peter cocked his head, but he clearly knew who it was since he didn’t react otherwise. Stiles relaxed instantly, given the silence made it obvious who was coming, and he really needed Derek right now. 

It only took half a minute for their new arrival to enter the loft, and once they did, Stiles deflated slightly, because it wasn’t Derek. 

It was Cora.

And she was carrying a duffel bag. 

She dropped it beside the entrance and hurried forward, eyes wide and terrified while she surveyed the damage. She crouched in front of Stiles and touched his good arm lightly. Stiles let out a slow breath when he could feel pain being leeched out of him, the pain receding to a dull ache. Peter had been doing that off and on while helping Melissa, but Stiles also acknowledged that it was painful for the Werewolves too, so he hadn’t been pressing his luck on asking for more. 

Besides, it wasn’t exactly polite to ask a Werewolf to steal pain, he’d just been lucky enough Peter cared to do it, and now Cora. 

“You look like shit, Stilinski,” Cora said, her voice tight. She tried for a smile, but didn’t succeed. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to duck?” 

“Where’s Derek?” he asked instead, because he didn’t want to talk about what had just happened. 

He was sure the two Argents and Jennifer had gotten away, considering Melissa’s quick arrival and the fact that Cora had taken so long to show up. It was likely the people who’d come to town to take him had been keeping the whole pack busy before retreating, otherwise the Hales wouldn’t look so stressed out. 

Great. People knew where he lived. He didn’t want to have to move again, though considering they hadn’t gotten in without help, he was sure this place was as safe as he was going to get. Though he made a mental note to use one of the protective spells around the building when he was feeling a bit less like minced meat. He still wasn’t great at magic, but what had happened today proved he had to try harder. 

“Derek’s okay, he’s with the pack,” Cora said. Almost word for word what Peter had said. 

“What happened?” Stiles demanded. “Kate was here, did she—” He cut himself off, honestly unsure he wanted to know. She’d appeared in front of Stiles, frustrated and empty-handed, so he knew she hadn’t gotten him, but that didn’t mean nothing had happened. 

“We got to him first,” Peter promised, one hand falling lightly onto his good shoulder and squeezing. “She didn’t have the chance to do anything. Derek is fine, Stiles. You should be more concerned with yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, even though he didn’t feel it. He wanted Derek. He felt like he wasn’t safe with Derek gone. “When is he coming back?” 

Cora’s eyes shot to Peter then, and Stiles felt dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. Melissa shifted uncomfortably, murmured that she would take her leave, and finished packing away her things. Cora informed her that Isaac and Parrish were still outside, and one of them would take her home. 

Once she left, the two Werewolves waited until the door downstairs slammed shut, and Stiles saw Cora tilt her head, as if listening to the locks click before she stood up, looking down at Stiles with a tight expression. 

“Derek isn’t coming back. He’s—not okay.” 

Stiles’ heart clenched in his chest and he started to jerk to his feet when pain flared at his attempted use of his bad arm and he fell back down into his seat. “You said he was fine!” 

“He _is_ fine,” Cora insisted, seeming frustrated with herself. She raked a hand through her hair, clearly irritated. “He’s just—a lot happened. He needs some space. I’m gonna stick around instead for a while.” 

Stiles tried not to worry about that, or about Derek, but honestly, the thought of Derek not being around terrified him. He was so used to him being there that the idea of him _not_ being within reach was disconcerting. 

“For how long?” he finally asked. 

“Not long,” Cora promised. “Couple of days. Just enough for him to get his thoughts organized.” She smiled a little and shoved his good shoulder very lightly, and carefully. “Don’t play favourites, Stiles. I’m a Hale, too.” 

Stiles forced himself to nod, feeling anxiety burning a hole in his stomach, but she was right. She and Peter were both Hales, so their protection would be no different. Besides, he was sure Derek wanted a break, it wasn’t like being around Stiles every hour of the day was fun. And this way, he’d get to know Cora better.

This was fine. It was totally, absolutely, positively, completely and utterly _fine_. 

* * *

It was not fine. 

Nothing about his life was currently _fine_ , and fuck whatever higher being existed for making him a Spark. 

The first night without Derek was... weird. Uncomfortable. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with Cora, and Stiles really liked her a lot, but it was just _different_ , and he was kind of in need of some stability right now considering the shit-show of a summer he’d had. 

Cora was a cuddler in bed, and she kept rolling over and clinging to Stiles in the middle of the night. Which would’ve been fine, really, except she was a Werewolf and squeezed _entirely_ too hard, not to mention he was injured. Every time she grabbed at him, she woke him up because his shoulder would scream angrily. 

She ended up sleeping on the couch by the third day, because it was exceptionally clear that having her in the bed with him was a bad idea. But that just made him feel uncomfortable, because he was so used to having Derek there that falling asleep seemed to take an eternity. 

Cora was also able to speak, which meant it was a lot louder than Stiles was used to. He didn’t mind it, since the silence was suffocating sometimes, but it made it harder for him to focus. When he was sitting in the train car reading through the healing book—which he wanted to master now more than ever—she didn’t sit outside silently reading or keeping to herself.

She tended to come into the train car with him and sit beside him. She’d ask him questions about the book in his lap, and try and convince him to test out some of the spells. Occasionally she’d go out into the main area and call people, because she was bored, but her voice carried in the large empty space, and it made it hard for him to focus. 

He already had a hard enough time given he got distracted by things fairly easily, he didn’t need her yammering on outside. Which he told her, rather rudely, on the fifth day. She didn’t seem to take offense to it, apologized for not having realized she was bothering him, and had gone to have her conversation outside the main door of the building.

Having her out of earshot had helped, but every time the building creaked or something shifted, or the fucking wind blew too loudly, Stiles would jump and think someone had gotten in without her knowledge. He kept thinking back to how fucking close he’d been to getting taken again, and Deucalion’s words in the basement about breaking him and rebuilding him had really stuck. 

Because honestly, Stiles knew how easy that would be. How simple it was to take someone and break them to the point where the smallest act of decency would have them willing and obedient to whoever that kind person happened to be. 

And he didn’t have the luxury of knowing if any Order members were with Argent and his daughter. At least he knew if something happened and he ended up back with Deucalion that the woman there was part of the Order and would do what was needed to get him out. With Argent, he had no such guarantees.

On top of that, the way Derek had reacted really worried him. Derek was _scared_ of Kate. She’d done such awful things to him that Derek, a fucking bonafide Alpha Werewolf, was terrified of her. It was more than her taking his voice and overall ability to communicate, it was about what she’d done beyond that. And if someone could be awful enough to steal his ability to speak to others, well, Stiles didn’t want to imagine what other horrible things she could possibly have done. 

On the eighth day of living with Cora, Stiles finally tried using some healing magic on himself. Melissa had been coming around to check in on him, to make sure everything was healing up properly. She was a kind woman, and Stiles recognized immediately how she could be Scott’s mother. It definitely made more sense than Jennifer, at any rate. 

The wound in his chest was healing up nicely, but the one on his shoulder was still tender and made it difficult for him to move his arm. He’d worn the sling for the first few days, but he still popped his stitches twice and basically any movement had the wound splitting open again. He found it insane that a bullet wound was healing faster than the claw marks left behind by the person who’d been protecting him. 

So, he finally gave his healing spells a shot. It had started out okay, Stiles mostly focussing on finishing up healing the much shallower and virtually non-existent wound in his chest. He got through the bullet wound in the front before he woke up on his back with Cora shaking him and screaming his name, looking terrified. He hadn’t realized he’d blacked out until she’d calmed down to tell him so.

On the bright side, half the bullet wound was healed, so there was that. 

Stiles read through the spell again, but didn’t see anything about why he’d passed out trying to heal himself. He ended up texting with Deaton for a little bit of guidance, despite the man not being a Witch himself. He still had knowledge, and contacts, and while Stiles knew he wasn’t comfortable with anyone knowing where the Spark was, Deaton did reach out to them all from time to time for help when Stiles was struggling. 

Apparently healing magic was the most draining of all magic that was in existence and was to be used sparingly. It wouldn’t kill anyone to overuse the magic, but it could cause magic deficiency, which basically meant overuse of magic depleting the reserve within a person’s body. Stiles hadn’t realized he even _had_ a reserve, but he figured it made sense. Nothing else he’d done to date had caused him to pass out, but realistically, it wasn’t like he overused magic on a regular basis. For now, healing magic was the only one that depleted his reserve, probably because he didn’t have a big one yet given he still didn’t use much magic. It made sense though, because it took a lot out of someone to heal another person, and even more to heal themselves.

Stiles would’ve thought bringing down a building would cause a deficiency but apparently not. Magic was weird, though he acknowledged he was probably the weirdest part of it, considering. 

It was on day eleven that Stiles had finally had enough. He’d been sleeping badly, which was doing nothing for his mood, not to mention his training, and he’d finally rolled over and grabbed his phone, almost breaking the charger when he wrenched it violently towards himself and sitting up. He opened up his text messages, and started a new one to someone he’d never had to text before, because they’d never been apart before. 

Not for this long, anyway. A few hours here and there, sure. But not eleven fucking days. 

**[Stiles]**  
so are you coming home or what?  
**[Stiles]**  
I’m not trying to be insensitive  
**[Stiles]**  
cora said you weren’t okay  
**[Stiles]**  
but I’m worried about you  
**[Stiles]**  
and it’s been almost two weeks  
**[Stiles]**  
when are you coming back? 

He realized that he’d ended with a question that Derek wouldn’t be able to answer, so he hastily sent another text. 

**[Stiles]**  
soon? 

He waited, staring at the phone, but it occurred to him given the hour that Derek might still be asleep. It was just after six in the morning, and nobody who wasn’t working had any real reason to be up so early, least of all Derek. Stiles let out a sigh, thinking about maybe heading down to get started with his day since sleeping was out of the question.

When he went to put the phone down, the screen shifted out of the corner of his eye, and he realized he’d gotten a reply from Derek. He brought it back towards him, looking down at the number, and felt his chest clench. 

**[Derek]**  
2

Two meant no. So Derek wasn’t coming home any time soon. And Stiles knew it wasn’t fair to _want_ him to, but he couldn’t keep doing this. Derek had been his pillar of strength since this entire mess had started, and even though they’d had a few bumps along the way, it had been _months_ since all this had begun. He wanted Derek back, he didn’t know how to do this without him. 

**[Stiles]**  
are you okay? 

**[Derek]**  
2

 **[Stiles]**  
can I help?

 **[Derek]**  
2

Stiles raked a hand through his hair in agitation, trying and failing to not be more worried than he had been moments before. 

He’d known Kate’s reappearance would likely do things to Derek, but he hadn’t thought it would be so bad that he’d cut Stiles out. Sure, protecting him while his psyche wasn’t great probably wasn’t the best idea, but what was wrong with having Derek come back and Cora stick around for a while longer? Somehow, Stiles doubted Derek was doing well with Peter. They seemed to have a weird relationship, and while it was evident that Peter cared for Derek, Stiles felt inclined to believe that he wasn’t who Derek needed right now. 

Knowing he couldn’t make this about him, and what _he_ needed, Stiles sighed and forced himself to see things from Derek’s perspective. Maybe he needed his family, and having Stiles around would just cause him undue stress. So if Derek needed time away from him, then Stiles would let him have that, even if he hated it. 

**[Stiles]**  
I’m here if you need me  
**[Stiles]**  
come back whenever   
**[Stiles]**  
take care of you first 

He didn’t get a response, not that he was expecting one. He plugged the phone back in and rolled over to try and go back to sleep, even though he knew that he wouldn’t. 

On day thirteen, Kira came by with some burgers. Stiles hadn’t left the building since his near kidnapping, and nobody wanted him to be out in plain sight for a while given how close of a call he’d had. 

His wounds were all mostly healed, though his shoulder blade still twinged and Cora confirmed that still wasn’t fully healed. He didn’t mind, it had stopped making moving his arm difficult so he tolerated the slight ache. He knew his constant movement and splitting of the stitches had only exacerbated the problem so really, his own fault. 

Kira came to join him in his little fort of blankets inside the train car while Cora went upstairs to spend some alone time. Stiles suspected she was in a relationship, because he’d heard her talking to whoever enough times over the past two weeks. He felt guilty that she hadn’t been able to go out and do what she wanted, but also acknowledged that Derek basically hadn’t had freedom his entire life, either. In a way, having Derek be somewhere else meant he could do what he wanted, for once. 

“How are you holding up?” Kira asked, passing over the take-out bag and sitting down beside him on the blankets. She eyed the book in his lap, but didn’t ask about it, which he appreciated. He still wasn’t great at this whole magic thing, and he was seriously contemplating asking Deaton to find him teachers for each applicable magic type. 

“Fine, I guess,” he admitted, pulling his burger from the bag and nodding a thanks to her. “Almost completely healed up, so that’s lifting my spirits. Still can’t get a handle on this magic thing.” He held up one hand, as if to prove his point, since dark shadows were beginning to creep up his arms again. “Also that keeps happening, so it’s been fun.” 

“Do you know why?” she asked, frowning slightly and reaching out to lightly touch his closest forearm. 

“Why does anything happen?” Stiles asked with a snort, unwrapping his burger and taking a bite out of it. He chewed enough to tuck it into one cheek, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, and said, “My hands either go black like this, or electricity dances beneath my skin. I’ve had fire and bright lights once before too, but the first two are the ones I see the most often.” 

“Derek thinks the electricity is when you’re mad,” she said, which had him pause in his chewing. She shrugged at his look, offering him a small smile. “We talk, you know. More lately, since you showed him he could have a real conversation using a dictionary. Thanks, by the way. For that. None of us thought of that, but it’s been nice being able to have real conversations with him. I think he’s relieved people still want to make an effort.” 

“Some of us, anyway,” Stiles said. He’d meant it mostly for himself, but had underestimated how well Kira could hear. She just snorted and leaned back against the train car floor, shrugging one shoulder. 

“Yeah. Some of us. His own pack doesn’t make an effort, and that’s always kind of annoyed me. I try not to make them feel guilty about it, but Derek’s my friend. I care about him. He’s had a rough childhood, and his curse is only making him feel like nobody will ever care about him.” She turned to look at him, offering a small smile. “Well, before you, anyway. Peter and I were the only ones who treated him like he wasn’t broken. I think you’re actually doing better than us. You treat him like he doesn’t feel like talking as opposed to him not being able to.” 

Stiles shrugged. “His eyebrows speak for themselves,” he said, taking another bite of his food. 

Kira laughed, nudging him lightly, but didn’t disagree. Stiles really liked Kira. She was the same with him as she was with Derek. Always treating both of them like they were normal, like nothing was wrong with them. Derek wasn’t cursed, and Stiles wasn’t the last of his kind. It was soothing, having someone like her around. 

“Hey, can you help me with something?” Stiles asked, turning to her a bit more and licking ketchup off his palm when it dripped down from his burger. 

“Sure.” Kira took a bite of her own wrap, motioning for him to go ahead.

“Derek and Parrish. What’s their deal?” 

Kira’s chewing halted and Stiles knew there was a story there. Every time he’d tried to ask about it, Derek was around so people hadn’t been very forthcoming with their information. He hadn’t wanted to ask Cora, because he’d assumed she wouldn’t answer, or that she wouldn’t know. Kira’s reaction made it explicitly clear that _she_ knew. 

Setting her wrap down on the wax paper it had been wrapped in, Kira wiped her mouth with a napkin, eyes anywhere but on Stiles, and clearly procrastinating. She folded the napkin into a tight little square, then unfolded it before she began shredding it between her fingers. 

“It’s complicated,” she finally said, still not looking at Stiles. “Derek—he blames Parrish. For what happened to Laura.” 

Stiles wasn’t sure what answer he’d been expecting, but hearing _that_ certainly wasn’t one of them. Stiles himself felt like Laura’s death was _his_ fault, so to realize that Derek blamed someone else entirely... it was weird. 

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly, uncertainly. 

“It’s...” Kira trailed off, sighed, and shook her head. She continued to shred the napkin, and Stiles let her until she ran out. Once it was in pieces beside her wrap, she sighed again and finally looked at him. “Laura and Parrish were dating. Kind of. Given Laura’s devotion to keeping you safe, it was hard for her to really connect with other people. Your father—” Kira cut off, likely at the way Stiles stiffened. 

He grit his teeth, forcing the hurt down deep, and motioned for her to continue. When she did, she made sure not to repeat her words. 

“He wanted her to have things. He wanted you safe, but he also recognized that she needed to have a life, too. Usually summer was the safest time for you, because you were always at home, and your dad could keep a closer eye on you. He sent Laura home every now and then to spend time with her family. She and Parrish started hanging out, they were only a year apart in age. They kind of dated off and on whenever she came back around.” 

Stiles was sure this was going somewhere, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why Laura and Parrish semi-dating meant Derek blamed him for Laura’s death. 

Evidently, Kira could see it on his face, because she winced and looked away from him again, picking up the small pieces of shredded napkin one piece at a time between her fingers before dropping them again. 

“Laura and Parrish were on the phone the night Gerard showed up,” she said quietly. 

It took Stiles a few moments to realize who she meant. Gerard must’ve been Argent Senior’s name. 

“They were having an argument,” Kira said softly. “Parrish wanted Laura to insist you and your father come back. He didn’t think it was fair to have her and Derek following you around like lapdogs all the time. She insisted he was being selfish, because it wasn’t about them following you, it was about Parrish wanting her to come back. They argued. It was bad. Really bad.” She sighed and leaned back against the train car once more, staring at the ceiling. “Laura didn’t hear the Hunters coming, and Derek couldn’t warn her. He was too far, and he couldn’t speak. She was caught off-guard, but she held her own as best she could. She died protecting Derek, but he wouldn’t have been in danger if he hadn’t been trying to warn her the Hunters were coming. Parrish distracted her, so Derek blames him.” 

Stiles felt his chest clench at the realization that, not only had his existence cost Laura her life, but it had also cost her an actual _life_. Her last moments had been her arguing angrily with her pseudo-boyfriend about her duties, while her cursed brother raced towards her to warn her about the Hunters. While the two of them were together and keeping Stiles safe at the expense of their own lives. 

“It’s not Parrish’s fault,” Stiles said quietly. “It’s mine. If I—”

“It’s not,” Kira interrupted, nudging his knee lightly with her own. “It’s Gerard’s fault. Not yours, and not Parrish’s. But Derek doesn’t see it that way. Parrish doesn’t, either. He blames himself for Laura, too.” Kira’s expression turned sad. “The call was still connected.” 

“Jesus.” Stiles rubbed his face with his free hand, probably smearing condiments across his cheeks, but he didn’t care. 

“It’s why he’s so determined to keep Derek and Cora safe. And you. Laura died protecting you, so Parrish isn’t going to let her death be in vain.”

Stiles let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “So many people have died, and for what? A useless, angry kid who can’t even figure out how to use his own magic?” Stiles scoffed, holding his free hand up. The black tendrils were still there, creeping upwards slowly, but not past his elbows yet. He wondered if one day they’d just consume him whole, and he’d just be this black hole of nothingness. 

He clenched his hand into a fist and let it drop onto his knee. His other hand still held his burger, but he wasn’t very hungry anymore. 

“Maybe it would’ve been better if I’d died all those years ago,” Stiles said quietly. “If I had, maybe all the people who’ve lost their lives protecting me would still be here.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Kira said quietly. “I think everything happens for a reason. If you’d died, it doesn’t mean Laura wouldn’t have. It doesn’t mean Derek wouldn’t have been captured and cursed. It doesn’t mean Peter wouldn’t have come back for his family. If anything, you dying might have made things worse for everyone. You don’t see the change in Derek, Stiles. I know it’s harder for you, because this is the only way you know him, but as much as we deny it, he _is_ broken. But when he’s with you, he looks like he believes he won’t always _be_ broken.” She sighed, picking her wrap back up and letting out a small laugh. “Wish he’d stop being a baby right now though and just come back.” 

Stiles turned to her, frowning slightly. “What do you mean? I thought he was—Cora said he wasn’t okay. And he told me he wasn’t okay. I figured he needed time because of Kate.” 

“What?” Kira turned to him, wrap almost at her mouth, but not taking a bite. “Peter got to Derek long before anyone even _saw_ Kate. He didn’t know she was there, he was caught in his hallucination. From what I gathered, it was just some random group of people who’d managed to break into the loft and kidnap you, which was why he attacked you and then ran out of the place.” She motioned Stiles with her wrap briefly. “He was still caught in it when Peter found him and snapped him out of it. Kate wasn’t there.” 

Stiles stared at her. “Then why the fuck isn’t he okay?!” he demanded, horrendously confused. 

When Kira tilted her head at him slightly, her expression was sad. Like she felt bad for him. Or like she pitied that he hadn’t been able to put the pieces together himself. 

“Stiles,” she said softly, reaching out to squeeze his knee gently with her free hand. “The only reason Derek isn’t okay, is because _you’re_ not okay. Derek has hurt you once before, and he swore he’d never do it again. And then he did. He won’t come back without a push, which is what Peter’s been doing for the past two weeks.” 

It felt like someone had just dumped water over his head, Stiles staring at Kira like he couldn’t believe she was real. 

“Stiles, Derek won’t come back because he hurt you. This has nothing to do with Kate. It has to do with _you_.” 

Fucking _what_?! 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- Derek get dosed with a strain of wolfsbane that makes him hallucinate and he attacks Stiles while he's out of his mind. Nothing sexual, and not even overly violent, but he does go after him.  
> \- Jennifer warning; she shoots Stiles.  
> \- Gerard and Kate warning.  
> \- There are speculations and implications of what Kate did to Derek while he was with her, but nothing depicted or confirmed.  
> \- There are discussions of Laura's death. It's not depicted, but it's mentioned and the discussion around it talks about who was present and what people heard.


	7. Missing You

“Stiles, will you—ow! Fuck!” He could hear Cora trying to untangle her shirt from some brambles, and had never thought it possible that Werewolves could actually be _bad_ at being Werewolves. Not that Cora was bad or anything, but she seemed to be tripping more than Stiles was, and she could see in the dark.

Not to mention she kept getting caught on branches and brambles, which was hilarious in a completely non-hilarious way—only because Stiles was _royally pissed_ —considering she knew these woods better than Stiles himself did. 

It was fall and the air was beginning to cool. Stiles felt like it wouldn’t be long before the days shortened and the weather shifted into something a little more frigid. He didn’t like winter, he was sensitive to the cold, and figured he’d have to learn some fire magic. He wasn’t sure which demographic that fell under. Mage, maybe? They were earth magic, fire was linked to earth magic, right? 

“Stiles! Fuck! Derek is gonna _kill_ me!” 

“He’ll have to get through me first,” Stiles insisted, finally seeing lights up ahead. He surged forward, wanting to get this over with, but Cora finally caught up to him and grabbed at his arm, wrenching him back. He let out a loud grunt and ripped his arm free. “Wrong one,” he snapped. 

“Shit, sorry.” She held both hands up in surrender, wincing at the realization that she’d just tugged on his still-wounded arm. His shoulder burned from the brief jerk, and he knew it was his own fault for having pulled it even more by trying to free himself, but he was just pissed. 

Pissed at himself, pissed at Derek, pissed at God, he didn’t know. He was just _pissed_ , as was evidenced by the fact that he had blue sparks of electricity visible beneath the skin of his hands and arms. If nothing else, at least Derek had been right that that specifically denoted anger.

Because Stiles was pretty fucking angry right now. 

“When I said I’d bring you to my house, I meant I would _bring_ you,” she insisted. “Not that you could just storm on ahead of me and make yourself an easy target for anything and anyone looking to get a piece of you.” 

“I have one Hale in front of me, and two at my back, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t possibly _be_ any safer,” he insisted.

Cora opened her mouth to argue, but Stiles just turned his back on her and she cursed before hurrying to keep up. It hadn’t been a long walk from the loft to the Hale house, but that was likely on purpose, considering Peter was the one who’d bought it and it backed onto the Preserve. The Hale house was a little ways off in the woods, and while there was a road they could’ve taken to get there, Cora didn’t actually have a car and had said it would be faster to cut through the trees as opposed to walking all the way around.

Something she probably regretted saying, but Stiles figured she’d been pretty stressed considering she’d left with Stiles totally fine and eating with Kira, and had come back down because Kira was screaming at her to get downstairs before Stiles blew the train car apart. 

It was a near thing, Kira was lucky Stiles liked her so much or he might’ve hurt her. Not on purpose, mind, but still. 

He was just so _mad_. That Derek was staying away when Stiles had made it _explicitly clear_ he wanted him to come back. That Derek had apparently been angsting for _days_ wanting to go back, but feeling like he shouldn’t because he might hurt Stiles again. 

That Derek was being a fucking _child_ about this when Stiles had enough anxiety without worrying about never fucking seeing the idiot ever again! Why couldn’t they just talk about this like adults?! 

More than anything, Stiles felt like he was mad at himself. He was mad, because Derek felt guilty for what he’d done, and was blaming himself and probably thinking horrible things about himself when it _wasn’t his fault_. This was all Stiles’ fault. All of it. Everything was on him. 

People were dying, people were getting cursed, people were losing the ability to live out their lives as they pleased. People thought they owed him a debt. People thought they had to protect him to the death. All of it was his fault, and it wasn’t fair. 

It wasn’t fucking _fair_ to put that kind of pressure on an eighteen year old who just wanted his dad back and wanted to go to university and be fucking _normal_. 

And now he was back to being mad at Derek, because if Derek had just admitted why he was keeping his distance on the first fucking day, Stiles could’ve told him not to bother and they wouldn’t be in this mess of guilt and angst and anger! 

“Stiles—” Cora cut herself off as he stomped up the stairs to the front door and banged on it loudly with one fist. She cursed and looked around nervously, as if not trusting her own home to be a safe place for him. 

It took only a few seconds for the door to open. Peter leaned against it slightly, eying Stiles with a small, amused smirk on his face. It was doing _nothing_ for Stiles’ dark mood. 

“Little Spark,” he said in way of greeting, crossing his arms. “Kira said to expect you.” 

“Where is he?” Stiles demanded. 

“In the kitchen.” Peter jerked his head over his shoulder. “Down the hall to the end. Cora, perhaps we can take a stroll. It’s a lovely evening, and I could use the fresh air.” 

“But—”

Peter didn’t let her finish. He just eased past Stiles, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and turned her away so they could walk down the porch steps. Stiles didn’t even look back at them, he just marched into the house and slammed the door shut. 

He could practically _feel_ the tension from where he stood, and he forced himself to take a slow, calming breath. Charging into the kitchen in a rage wasn’t going to help either of them, and mad as he was, he still felt like he was angriest with himself for making Derek feel this way, and he didn’t want to take it out on the wrong person, it wasn’t fair. 

Letting out the breath he’d taken, he squared his shoulders while ignoring the twinge in his left one, and strode down the corridor to the kitchen. He hesitated at the threshold, but mostly because now that he was there, it was harder to be angry. He’d spent the whole walk there fuming, had been royally pissed at the door, and yet the few steps it had taken to get from the entrance to the kitchen had bled the anger out of him and replaced it with fear.

What if Derek didn’t come back? What if what had happened had damaged things to an irreparable degree? What if this was finally one injustice too many for Derek and he didn’t want to be around Stiles anymore? 

That last step into the kitchen felt like it took him a thousand years, but he finally managed to cross the threshold and look over at the table. 

Derek was sitting there, resolutely not looking at him. He was staring down at a piece of paper, fists clenched and his entire frame tensed. Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek was upset that he’d come, or if he was waiting for something horrible to escape his mouth. 

Crossing the kitchen took an almost herculean effort, but Stiles managed it, stopping on the other side of the table from Derek and letting one hand fall lightly onto the wooden surface, tapping at it, almost like he was knocking. 

“Hey,” he finally said after an endless silence. 

Derek just grunted low in his throat. Stiles took that as the greeting he was sure it was meant to be, as opposed to a sound of displeasure asking him to go. 

Silence stretched out for a long while after that. Stiles knew Derek couldn’t say anything, but he himself had no idea how to start this. He’d been having the most epic of arguments with Derek in his head on the way over, but now that he was there, he couldn’t remember half of what he’d wanted to say. 

“Cora said you didn’t come back because you weren’t okay,” he finally settled on. “Because of Kate?” 

Derek bared his teeth, but he aimed it at the table since he still hadn’t lifted his head to look at Stiles. 

Stiles waited for him to put the teeth away before continuing. 

“Because of me?” he asked. 

The wince was answer enough and he clenched his jaw, struggling not to say something he would regret. 

“That wasn’t your fault,” Stiles insisted. 

Derek finally looked up then, and his face was a mask of fury. He pointed emphatically at Stiles’ chest, then thumbed at himself and made a sharp cutting motion. It was evident in every action that Derek was disgusted with himself for what he’d done. 

“That wasn’t your fault,” Stiles said again, voice rising when Derek started to argue. He ignored that he didn’t _have_ to raise his voice since Derek’s arguments were just more sharp jabs and angry pointing, but it somehow felt natural to raise his voice when arguing with someone. As if making sure he was heard. 

Derek was on his feet, tugging at the front of his own shirt angrily, clearly referencing the injury on Stiles’ chest before pounding at his own shoulder where Stiles had been shot. 

“Yeah, I got hurt,” Stiles agreed, “but that’s not on you. No, it’s not!” Stiles snapped angrily when Derek continued to motion the injuries. “It’s not! Derek, _shut up_!” 

The words were so utterly ridiculous to say to someone who literally _couldn’t_ speak that they actually stunned Derek into freezing. He just stared at Stiles, looking startled, one hand still clenched into the front of his own shirt, but no longer tugging at it or pounding his own chest. 

“Just shut up for two fucking seconds,” Stiles snapped, rubbing his face with both hands. “It wasn’t your fault—no!” he said loudly, when it looked like Derek was about to argue again. “Let me finish! Shut up and sit down and let me talk!” 

Derek looked extremely unhappy, but he just scowled at Stiles, crossed his arms over his chest, and slowly sat down. Stiles had to applaud his quads for being able to lower him so slowly when his arms weren’t helping to support him. 

Fucking Werewolves. 

“Ever since this whole thing started, ever since I lost my _dad_ , the one constant has been you. The only person who’s been there for me, kept me safe, kept me _sane_ , has been you. When you ran out of the loft, when I heard—when Kate...” Stiles grit his teeth, trying to keep the panic down, and forced himself to continue. “When they said they’d tricked you into going to her, all I was worried about was _you_. I didn’t give two shits about myself, I cared more about you, and if Peter hadn’t told me you were okay before I found out who they’d sent you to, I’d have panicked even more. I was fucking _worried_ about you, Derek. Because I _care_ about you.” 

Raking one hand through his hair, he licked his lips and started pacing in front of the table. He could see Derek’s head turning slightly to follow him back and forth, back and forth, but he didn’t look over at him again. Stiles just focussed on the floor in front of him while he moved from one end of the kitchen to the other. 

“When Cora came over and said you weren’t okay, I was _worried_ about you. I thought something had happened with _her_ before she’d shown up at the loft.” He hadn’t wanted to say Kate’s name again, but he felt like maybe people hadn’t mentioned she’d been at the loft, because he noticed Derek stiffen out of the corner of his eye. He ignored that and continued. “I wanted to give you space, because I thought you needed it. Because I wanted you to be _okay_. But then you didn’t come back. And I didn’t hear from you. And Peter wouldn’t tell me how you were doing. I only texted you because I needed to know you were coming back. And you fucking said _no_.” 

Stiles rounded on Derek then, moving back the few steps to the table and leaning against it, both hands on the wooden surface. “Do you know how that felt? The one person who’s been there for me this entire time saying he wasn’t coming back, that he _wasn’t_ okay, that I _couldn’t_ help. Do you know how that felt, Derek? I just wanted you to be okay. I wanted to help you, to have you back, to just—fix things. Go back to how we were. Distract you from _her_ , and have you back in my space where I wanted you. And then Kira comes over, and tells me the reason you’re staying away is because of _me_.” 

He couldn’t help the loud, bitter laugh that escaped him then, raking a hand through his hair again and pacing once more, rubbing at his eyes hard enough to see stars. “I mean, Jesus _Christ_ , Derek! This wasn’t your fault!” He rounded on him once more. “Can you stop being the fucking martyr? If you needed space, that was fine, I could’ve handled it. I hated it, every fucking second, and I wanted to be selfish and force you to come back, but I care enough about you that I didn’t. I thought you needed some time away from me. But this?” He motioned between them. “This is not okay. You can’t decide this on your own. You can’t take what happened and use it to punish yourself. It wasn’t your _fault_ , Derek. There was a Darach, and she poisoned you, and she made you hallucinate. I’m not even mad about what happened. I don’t even _care_. I care about _you_ , and I can’t—” He cut himself off, bringing one hand up to his forehead and closing his eyes, struggling to calm himself down. 

“ _Please_ , can you just come back? I can’t do this without you. I need... I can’t.” He let out a harsh exhale and opened his eyes, letting his hand drop. He saw Derek’s eyes follow it down, and glanced at it. 

The black shadows were back. Stiles was starting to wonder if those weren’t fear. Every time he had them, he felt like something causing him fear or anxiety was happening. And he was definitely afraid right now. Because he needed Derek to come back. He _needed_ him. 

“I can’t do this without you,” he insisted again. “Derek, it wasn’t _you_.” 

Derek didn’t move for a long while. He just sat staring at him, eyes shifting from Stiles’ face, down to his hands. The longer the silence stretched, the higher the black shadows went, up past his wrists, past his elbows, creeping up higher towards his shoulders. 

Finally, Derek let out a slow breath and got to his feet, moving around the table. He stopped in front of Stiles, hesitated briefly, then reached out one hand to lightly touch his good shoulder. When Stiles didn’t react badly—as if he would, but apparently that was a fear for Derek—the Werewolf pulled him closer and wrapped his arms around him, letting out a small huff before pressing his cheek against Stiles’ hair and holding him tightly. 

Stiles instantly felt better, his muscles relaxing and the dark tendrils on his arms beginning to recede. He buried his hands in the dark material of Derek’s shirt on his back, clenching his fists tightly and letting his forehead rest against Derek’s shoulder. The Werewolf wasn’t much taller than him, so it made it a little awkward, but he didn’t care. 

One of Derek’s hands left his back to bury in Stiles’ hair, holding him tightly, and really, this was all Stiles wanted. Derek back. Because he felt safe with Derek. He felt good, and protected, and cared for, and he valued Derek’s friendship so, so much. Everything had gone to shit for him, and once they’d gotten on even footing, Derek was literally the only thing holding him up. 

And he liked to think he was doing the same for him. Kira had said Derek was different now, in a good way, and that it was because of Stiles. He hoped it was true, because Derek definitely deserved some happiness in his life. After his shit childhood, and even shittier adulthood, he deserved all the good things. 

Stiles was going to give him as much of that as he could. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, clearing his throat and pulling away, letting out an awkward cough and rubbing his good shoulder against his face in case of any tears. He didn’t think there were any, but just in case. It had been a bit of an emotional day for him. “Good chat. We should go home.” He wrinkled his nose at Derek. “And you need a shower. You smell like wet dog. What, you don’t shower anymore?” 

Derek gave him a look for that, sighing deeply before staring at the ceiling, as if searching for patience. Stiles just smirked and smacked him in the arm. 

“Come on, big guy. Get your stuff and let’s get out of here.” 

Derek rolled his eyes, but obliged. He moved past Stiles to walk through the house, then turned, tilting his head in a, “Follow me,” sort of way. Stiles obeyed, moving along behind him. Derek wasn’t acting like he thought the house was dangerous and he wanted Stiles in sight, it was more of an invitation for him to take a look around. 

Stiles followed him up the stairs, eyes on all the pictures lining the wall. He felt guilty when he saw all the happy family photos of the Hales. All of them together. It made his chest clench at the knowledge that he and his mother were the reason most of them were gone and he tore his gaze away. 

The picture at the top of the stairs was harder to ignore, because it was obvious it was recent. It was of Cora in her graduation cap and gown, one arm wrapped around Lydia’s shoulders and thrusting her diploma in the air. Lydia herself looked perfect, not one hair out of place, and while her expression suggested she thought Cora was ridiculous, her eyes were fond when she looked at her friend. 

Stiles paused to stare at it for a few seconds, at the way Lydia was staring at Cora, but when a door opened down the corridor, he started and realized Derek had moved on ahead. Stiles hurried to catch up to him, moving quickly to the only open door on the second floor and stepping into the room, looking around.

It was obvious Derek hadn’t spent any time in that room until the week before, because it was the epitome of a teenage boy’s room. The walls were plastered with posters, there were game consoles and movies stacked by a small television, and Derek had _three_ different bookshelves sporting so many books that they were double-stacked. 

Even teenage Derek liked to read, apparently. People had often said Derek was quiet, even before the curse, so Stiles felt like he shouldn’t have been too surprised. 

When he turned to watch Derek pack a few things away—it made sense he didn’t have much, since he hadn’t returned to the loft since racing out of it chasing a hallucination—his eyes caught sight of the large poster hanging at the head of Derek’s bed. He couldn’t help the small smirk that formed, and when Derek shut his duffel and hoisted it over his shoulder, he turned back to him and frowned at the look on his face. 

Derek followed his line of sight, then sighed and brought his free hand up to cover his eyes, as if knowing he was never going to hear the end of it. 

“Hey man, no judgement,” Stiles insisted with a grin, both hands up. “Beyonce is hot as hell. I don’t have a life-size poster of her in my bedroom, but I mean, if you’re missing her, we can bring her back to the loft and you can stick her to the wall on your side of the room.” 

He got a _real_ look for that, which only made him laugh. He wasn’t joking about Beyonce being attractive though, so he couldn’t fault teenage Derek for wanting to have a poster of her in his room. Her music was awesome, too. He just hadn’t been expecting something like that from Derek, was all. The rest of the posters were usual nerd things, like _Star Wars_ and _Doctor Who_ and all those things. She was literally the only thing out of place in the whole room. 

Derek moved up beside him, his look saying, “Ready to go?” 

“Just a sec,” Stiles said, then moved towards the bookshelves. Derek stayed by the door while Stiles perused it, but there were just _so many_! Not that Stiles had been reading books lately. Well, not _fiction_ , anyway. He turned back to Derek. “What’s your favourite?” 

Derek’s eyes shifted to the side, as if in thought, then he moved forward towards the bookshelves and stood beside Stiles while perusing them. After a few seconds, he reached out to pull a worn, battered book from a pile of similarly worn, battered books. He held it out to Stiles, who took it and let out a small hum. 

“ _Treasure Island_. Never read it. Saw the Disney movie _Treasure Planet_.” 

Derek made a sound of disgust, Stiles’ eyebrows shooting up.

“What, I liked it! It was good. But I guess nothing ever beats the original book version, right?” He flipped it over to read the back, Derek waiting while he did so. “Can I borrow it?” 

He got a wave towards the door in response and Stiles smiled, following after Derek while unzipping his duffel so he could stuff it inside. Derek gave him a look for that, clearly saying, “What, you couldn’t carry it yourself?” 

“You want it to get ruined?” Stiles asked innocently while he struggled to get the bag closed once more since they were going down the stairs now and Derek was _not_ making it easy for him to zip it back up, the asshole. “What if I tripped and it went flying into a puddle of mud? Then what?”

They’d reached the bottom of the stairs by then, and Derek half-turned while they headed for the door. He used his index finger to do a swish-and-flick motion, presumably denoting magic. Stiles found it adorable he knew _Harry Potter_ , but didn’t tease him about it. _Harry Potter_ was fucking dope. 

“I’d levitate it? What good would that do?” 

Derek reached out to cuff him across the back of the head and Stiles laughed, batting his hand away. His shoulder twinged at the action, but he ignored it, because he felt better than he had in _days_ , and he was just so happy to have Derek back he couldn’t even put the feeling into words. 

They exited the house, Derek making Stiles hang back for a second while he surveyed the area. When he deemed it safe, he motioned for Stiles to follow and stick close, which he’d have done anyway, and then turned to lock the door. 

Walking back through the forest, Derek was holding Stiles’ upper arm on his good side, having known even without being told that it was still tender. Because apparently, Derek was more observant than Cora was. 

Derek was stressed the whole walk back, head swivelling and teeth baring every now and then at foreign noises, but Stiles did his best to stick close and let himself be led as quickly as possible. When they reached the building once more, Derek seemed to hesitate, like he was worried going in there would have him lose his head again. 

“Don’t worry,” Stiles insisted, offering him a small smile when Derek glanced at him. “I cleaned up the yellow powder. Deaton told me how to dispose of it safely, since it would affect any other Supernatural type and Melissa had already left by then. It’s gone, and Cora’s been there for two weeks and she’s been totally fine.” 

He waited for Derek to glance back at the building, and could tell he wasn’t happy, as if remembering what had happened. It suddenly occurred to Stiles that maybe he _did_ remember. Maybe once the powder shit had worn off, Derek realized the person he’d attacked was Stiles. 

It took Derek only a few additional seconds before he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and moved them quickly from the shadows of the trees around the side of the building. When they reached the front, his eyes went to the Camaro, as if making sure it was still there—it was, because no one had touched it since Derek had run out of there—and he moved them swiftly to the door. 

Stiles let himself be trapped between the door and the Werewolf while Derek unlocked it. Once they were inside, he shut it firmly behind himself, being sure it was securely locked, then headed for the stairs. 

“Uh, Derek?” Stiles asked, blinking hard in the darkness. “You forget we don’t all have night vision?” 

He could practically _feel_ the judgmental eye-roll from where he stood, and he watched the large shadow that was Derek head back in his direction, touching his arm lightly. Stiles gripped Derek’s forearm and let himself be led towards the stairs, and then up them. 

“We really need to get the lights fixed up,” Stiles muttered. “Maybe that can be your side project or something. Are you a handyman? I feel like you’d do good work with your hands.” 

Derek’s snort suggested he knew full well Stiles was just trying to get him to do something he wanted. He grinned, tripping on the last step with a curse, but Derek twisted his hand to grab at Stiles’ own arm to keep him standing. He muttered a thank you and moved to pull open the loft door. 

Once the lights were on inside, Derek shut the door, staring at it like it bothered him. Stiles figured he wasn’t happy that it didn’t roll on the track properly, but that was the best Boyd and Isaac had managed to do with it. 

“It locks just fine,” Stiles said, Derek turning to him. He shrugged. “I mean, it closes and locks. That’s what matters, right?” 

Derek looked back at the door, locking it, then shrugged himself before dropping his duffel on the floor. He looked around, like he’d never seen the place before, moving through it slowly. He ran his fingers over the back of the couch, staring down at it, then glanced towards the stairs. Stiles just watched him climb up them, and figured Derek was taking note of what had happened the past two weeks. 

When he came back down, he raised his eyebrows at Stiles, then pointedly looked at the couch. 

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Um, Cora’s kind of painful to sleep with. She kept trying to crush me, and I was injured, so she slept on the couch. We both figured nobody was going to get at me on the second floor of the loft.” 

Derek seemed to think about it for a while, then accepted that for what it was. Stiles knew he wouldn’t sleep on the couch, but that was fine. After months of sleeping in the same bed as him, Stiles was kind of out of sorts about having been alone the past two weeks. He was looking forward to having another body beside him, it made him feel safer. 

When Derek’s eyes shifted to the kitchen wall behind Stiles, he turned to glance at it as well, wincing before facing him once more and clapping his hands together. 

“Yeah. Sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t mean to—you know.” He motioned the wall behind him vaguely. “I was just trying to get you off me. I panicked and used a bit too much force. I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.” 

Derek just shrugged. Stiles figured having him fly through a windshield and break a majority of his bones had probably hurt a lot more than being thrown through a wall. It was kind of crazy when Stiles thought about it, the fact that Derek had been so much more injured flying through the windshield than clean through a wall. He figured it had to do with the landing. And the resistance. The wall was stronger, so it took the brunt of the hit before crumbling. The windshield was fragile, so it hadn’t really saved Derek from hitting the ground with momentum. 

“Isaac and Boyd fixed up the wall. The door too. Our fridge was a little messed up, but it still works, so I just left it.” 

He watched Derek head for the kitchen, moving to stand in the doorway while the Werewolf looked around at everything, as if taking stock of what had changed and what hadn’t. He eventually cocked an eyebrow at the newest addition to the counter and turned to look at Stiles. 

“What?” he asked defensively. “I like cookies, okay?” 

Derek rolled his eyes in a mocking way, but Stiles felt a little smug when the Werewolf reached out for the cookie jar—shaped like Cookie Monster, because fuck yes—and pulled the lid off. He grabbed two cookies and proceed to cram one into his mouth while replacing the lid, moving back towards Stiles. 

When he was close enough, Stiles made a grab for the remaining cookie, but Derek just held it out of reach, eyebrows raised. Stiles grinned. 

“Spoilsport.” 

Derek responded by stuffing the second cookie into his mouth, crumbs getting caught in his beard. 

“You’re so hot,” Stiles said sarcastically. “You win the award for most attractive Werewolf of the year.” 

Derek just smirked while he continued to chew, then reached out one hand and tugged at the bottom of Stiles’ shirt. Not hard enough to actually pull it up, but just so that his intentions were clear. Stiles glanced down at his hand, then back up at his face. 

“It’s okay, Derek. It’s all healed up. Mostly.” 

All that earned him was another, more insistent, tug. Sighing explosively, Stiles took a few steps back so they were out of the kitchen and more into the living/dining area. He moved out of Derek’s immediate space, the Werewolf following him a few steps before stopping, and then wrestled out of his shirt. His shoulder snarled at him for the rough treatment, but he didn’t worry about it and tugged the shirt all the way off, dropping it onto the back of the closest dining chair. 

Derek moved forward, eyes on the scars on Stiles’ chest. The wounds from his claws hadn’t been deep, but Stiles assumed the way they’d healed had made them leave a mark, because they’d scarred. Not harsh and present, just light lines where he’d been hurt. Nothing like the bullet wound, which was a very stark white against his already pale skin. He didn’t know if the back had scarred too, but he _did_ know the claw marks in his shoulder were still scabbing, open wounds.

When Derek stopped in front of him, a weird, almost whine left his throat and his mouth turned down unhappily. He reached out one hand, fitting his fingers to each line on Stiles’ chest, his touch feather-light while he slid them down across the healed injury. The perfect lineup had his mouth turn down even more. 

“Derek,” Stiles insisted, reaching up one hand and pressing it against the Werewolf’s on his chest, forcing him to look up at him. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t _you_.” He half-smiled. “Now we just know not to open letters that smell weird. Lesson learned.” 

Derek didn’t seem to find that funny, his scowl deepening. His eyes shifted to the scar from the bullet, pulling his hand free of Stiles’ to press his thumb lightly against it. When he made Stiles turn, the harsh exhale he heard meant that his back still looked like shit. Made sense, since Stiles hadn’t worked out the logistics of healing it with magic. Not to mention passing out hadn’t been fun, but it was really starting to bother him, so he needed to work on that. He didn’t know when he might need to heal someone else, and it was a neat trick. 

Once Derek had looked his fill, he pressed his hand against Stiles’ spine. Stiles could feel the pain slowly leeching out of him. It had only been the dullest twinge, one of those bone-deep, ever-present aches, but it was a relief to finally have it all but disappear for the first time in days. While Cora had been taking his pain every now and then, she didn’t seem as attuned to Stiles as Derek was. 

It was probably because Derek _had_ to be attuned to everything given his current vocal limitations. But Stiles didn’t see his lack of speech as a disability, because Derek was very expressive in other ways. 

There was a reason the saying went, “actions speak louder than words,” and in Derek’s case, it was very true. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, turning back to him while grabbing his shirt. “You should shower. I wasn’t kidding when I said you smelled like wet dog. What’s with that?” 

Derek snorted while Stiles tugged his shirt back on over his head, but he didn’t argue with him and just headed for the bathroom. 

“You might wanna grab a towel, Cora’s been using the spare one in the bathroom,” Stiles called after him while still trying to get his head through his shirt. He finally managed it, feeling like a child for not being able to get a damn _shirt_ on, and smoothed it down. Pausing while he listened for Derek to close the bathroom door and start the shower, he moved quickly into the kitchen and up to the cookie jar, pulling the lid off and scowling down at the lone cookie that was left. 

“These were _my_ cookies,” he insisted, knowing Derek could hear him. He took the last one, just in case Derek decided he wanted a morning snack and _stole_ it from him, and took a bite out of it while his phone buzzed in his pocket. 

Licking crumbs off his lips, he reached into his jeans to grab it, pulling it out and checking the home screen. It was Peter texting him, Stiles rolling his eyes at the message preview he could read. He unlocked his phone and scrolled to his texts while moving back into the living area, finishing off his cookie and bending down to grab Derek’s bag so he could bring his stuff upstairs. 

**[Peter]**  
Thank you for getting my nephew out of the house  
**[Peter]**  
His presence was becoming irksome

Stiles almost missed a step on his way up and cursed, deciding to reply only once he was back on solid ground. He could walk up normal stairs without looking, but a spiral staircase was a little harder so he just made his way to the top and stopped at the landing, Derek’s duffel in one hand while he typed out a response with the other. 

**[Stiles]**  
anytime  
**[Stiles]**  
also  
**[Stiles]**  
you’re a terrible liar 

**[Peter]**  
Is that so? 

**[Stiles]**  
I’ve been reading the healing book  
**[Stiles]**  
lots of notes in there  
**[Stiles]**  
about curses involving loss of voices

**[Peter]**  
That could’ve been anyone

**[Stiles]**  
sure  
**[Stiles]**  
let me know if you find any more books  
**[Stiles]**  
I’ll see what I can do on my side

Peter didn’t respond, but Stiles knew that if he found any other books, they would magically appear on their doorstep. 

He put his phone away, and got to work unpacking Derek’s things, feeling better than he had in days at the knowledge that Derek was back. 

Stiles would never admit it aloud, though he was sure Derek knew, but he’d really missed him.

God, Stiles had missed him.

* * *

“I’m sorry?” Stiles asked, staring at an upside down Deaton in confusion. 

“I thought it was what you wanted.” The Druid moved further into the train car, looking around with interest, as if curious about how Stiles had laid everything out to his liking. 

It was well into September by now, and as predicted, the days were shorter, the weather was cooler, and Stiles was no better at magic than he had been when he’d arrived. 

Well, no, that was a lie. He was pretty good with that shield spell now, much to Derek’s annoyance, since he mostly used it to stop him from stealing his cookies. He had told Derek long ago chocolate was his weakness, it was rude of the Werewolf to constantly eat his cookies! Nevermind that Derek was the one who _bought_ them, but still! 

“I mean, yeah, but I thought you said there weren’t all the different types in the Order,” Stiles argued, still staring at Deaton upside down. 

Stiles had started shifting around a lot while reading his various books, mostly because it helped him focus on them for longer stretches of time. He was currently lying on his back with his legs up along the side of the car, with Derek sitting normally beside him and occasionally reaching out to stop Stiles’ legs from falling over onto his shoulder. 

Derek was good about keeping Stiles on task, and he rewarded him for his hard work with conversations. Stiles knew that Derek got frustrated having to go one word at a time, but he wanted to know more about him, so the compromise they’d come to was that Stiles got to ask Derek one question for every hour of solid hard work he did. It helped him stay on track, and he’d read so many of the books from Peter’s vault that it made his brain hurt. 

Still wasn’t good at the practice part of it all though, which was why Deaton was there. Because apparently, Stiles’ whining about a teacher had finally reached a point where everyone could see he couldn’t do this on his own. 

He needed his very own Hogwarts, and sadly, that didn’t exist. Damn, would it be useful if it did, though. 

“Peter and I have been in discussion,” Deaton admitted, picking his way over to them and leaning against one of the sideways seats. “While the CIA is still a bit of a concern, not very many people know what you look like. If we are careful, and we have you trained far from Beacon Hills, at a destination we have chosen, it will minimize the risk of your identity being discovered.” 

Stiles just grunted, because ‘minimizing’ didn’t equal ‘eliminate.’ He turned to look at Derek to see what he thought of it. Derek looked like he was thinking, eyes shunted to one side and lips pursed. When he noticed Stiles looking, he glanced back at him and let out a small sigh, closing the book he’d been reading. Stiles took that for what it meant, facing Deaton’s upside down form once more. 

“I take it Peter’s already got it all planned out?” 

“More or less,” Deaton said with a small smile. “He’d have preferred this be done in the summer, as many of the pack were available to escort you, but having too many guards would elicit questions. Best we just send you with Derek.” 

“Do we know this person I’m going to?” Stiles asked uncertainly. 

“They are someone known by other members of the Order. A powerful Witch who has taught many others already. Peter’s already reached out, claiming you are his nephew who’s only recently come into his abilities, and that you are struggling to control them.” 

“So what happens if I get mad or scared and my hands do the freaky shit?” 

“There shouldn’t be any reason for that, but I trust Derek can protect you.” 

Stiles didn’t doubt Derek could protect him, but this was a powerful Witch, and the last thing he wanted was to put Derek’s life in danger. It must’ve shown on his face, because Derek reached forward to flick him in the forehead. 

“Ow,” he snapped, rubbing at it. “Shut up, I know.” 

He wasn’t stupid, he knew he needed this training. He just didn’t want it to cost Derek his life if things went south. But then again, the Order wouldn’t send him to someone terrible. If she found out who, or rather _what_ he was, Stiles had to hope she was a good person and wouldn’t try and keep him all for herself. 

“She’s agreed to train you for a month starting next week.” Deaton pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to Derek. The Werewolf leaned forward to take it, unfolding it and scanning it while Stiles just stared up at him from his upside down position. “Peter’s made arrangements for accommodations starting this weekend, so you can head up whenever is convenient.”

Derek grumbled low in his throat, which had Stiles reaching out for the piece of paper. When it was relinquished to him, he flipped it around and made a face. They were going to Wyoming. In September. It was going to be cold. Not freezing, but still cold. And it wasn’t exactly a hop, skip and a jump away. It was three States over, which meant they’d have to make sure they left early enough to make it there on time for the first day of training. 

“We’re sure this is a good idea, right?” Stiles asked, handing the page back to Derek, who folded it and tucked it into his book. 

“Witch magic is the best for you to start with, and she is the only person who is trusted enough to teach you.” Deaton smiled slightly. “I am sure you can handle yourself should anything go amiss.” 

“Yeah, cause I did _so well_ the last time,” he muttered. 

He ignored the look Derek shot him and just grunted and rolled to the side, away from him so he could twist and get to his knees. His head spun for a moment from all the blood rushing upwards, but he recovered quickly and got to his feet, stretching loudly. 

“Guess I should cycle back to some Witch books.” He looked at Derek. “Wanna head to the vault?” 

Derek patted his stomach with his book and Stiles smirked. 

“Yeah, I could eat. Don’t really wanna go to a sit-down place though. People stare, it’s rude. Drive-thru?” 

The Werewolf shrugged, which Stiles interpreted as ascent. They stared at one another for a moment, Stiles waiting to see if Derek had any preferences. When he held up one hand with his fingers curled, Stiles made a face. 

“Tacos? Dude, no. Last time you had tacos, I almost died. We are _not_ close enough for you to be farting that much in bed while I’m right beside you.” 

Derek’s eyebrows shot up and he motioned himself briefly, before jabbing a finger at Stiles. 

Stiles pointed a finger right back. “That was _one time_ , and I _told you_ the chicken smelled off! You cannot hold that against me forever.” 

Derek looked smug when he held up both hands in surrender and Stiles just scowled. It wasn’t his fault the loft had turned into a fucking bio-hazard warzone because he’d had explosive diarrhea. At least he’d made it to the fucking _bathroom_ in time, but that hadn’t stopped the smell.

God, the _smell_. 

But the chicken was _bad_! He’d insisted it was bad, wasn’t his fault Derek hadn’t believed him.

Stupid Werewolves and not getting sick. Stiles had been miserable for _hours_ after that! 

“McDonalds?” Stiles offered, to move the conversation along. 

The look he got back for that one clearly said, “Again?” 

“Oh, oh!” He flapped one hand at Derek. “What about Indian? I know it’s not drive-thru, but we were gonna head to the vault anyway. What if we ordered for pickup? We can call ahead and have it ready for when we’re done, and bring it back here.” 

Derek motioned Stiles’ pocket in answer, so he grinned and yanked his phone out, opening a browser and typing for an Indian restaurant nearby in the search bar. When he found one, he perused the menu to check the selection and prices, then clicked out of it and went to another. It had less variety, but was more reasonable in price and had good reviews, so he passed it over to Derek so he could choose what he wanted. 

He’d forgotten Deaton was there until he heard a small chuckle and turned to look at him. The Druid was smiling at him, looking fond, and pleased. Stiles cocked an eyebrow. 

“What?” 

“Nothing at all,” Deaton said unhelpfully, but his eyes continued to skirt back and forth between Derek and Stiles like that explained everything. 

Stiles didn’t dwell on it and turned back to Derek when he tugged at his pants to get his attention. He turned the phone around and pointed out two dishes, rice and naan bread. Stiles gave him a thumbs up while taking the phone back and scrolled to the number before dialling it to place their order. 

Deaton stuck around until they both got their shoes on and left the building, locking up behind them. He was still smiling to himself mysteriously, and Stiles had no idea why.

They waved while Deaton headed out and Stiles hunkered down in the passenger seat of the Camaro, getting comfortable while Derek drove them towards the vault. The food would take twenty minutes, so they had tons of time to get there, pick out some books, and head to the Indian place. 

Stiles was drumming his hands on his thighs, feet up on the dash while Derek eased to a stop at a red light. When the Werewolf glanced at him, Stiles knew he could smell his anxiety. He shrugged one shoulder in response to the look, but he knew Derek wouldn’t drop it. 

When they reached the high school, Derek parking in an empty spot, he turned off the engine, then faced Stiles fully, eyebrows up in a clear, “What is it?” 

“I’m just...” Stiles drummed his hands a bit faster against his own legs. “I’m not so sure this is the best way to start. With someone outside the safety of our inner circle, you know? If this Witch goes all Maleficent on us, my magic is pathetic right now. I don’t want you to get hurt trying to keep me safe.” 

Derek brought up both hands, flicking his fingers out once, denoting Stiles’ shield. 

“Yeah, I know I’m good at that, but what if she knows how to break it? I mean, Jennifer shot right through it, and she wasn’t even a Witch. And when _she_ came in,” Stiles said, avoiding saying Kate’s name, “she got me incapacitated in seconds with that vertigo spell. I don’t want to be that vulnerable ever again, but I don’t want you to get hurt trying to protect me, either.” 

Derek reached out to grab one of Stiles’ hands, forcing him to stop with the drumming. They were still normal for now, but Stiles was sure a few more hours of anxiously thinking about this would have them shadowed and dark in no time. 

For a long while, neither of them moved, Derek just gripping his hand tightly. Then he let him go, and reached out to press his palm flat against Stiles’ chest. It was as much a confirmation of his belief in Stiles’ abilities as it was a promise that everything would be okay. And Stiles wanted to believe that, but his track record was kind of shit right now. 

It’d been months since he’d gotten the restrictor off, and the best he could do was stop a Werewolf from stealing his cookies. That was pretty pathetic, in the grand scheme of things. 

But he knew the whole teacher thing was his idea, and he wasn’t going to learn anything until he managed to get some _real_ practice. If Peter trusted this person, that would have to be good enough for Stiles. 

“Thanks, big guy.” Stiles reached out to lightly smack Derek in the chest with the back of his hand, then motioned the vault. “Come on, we gotta go or our food’ll get cold.” 

Derek pulled his own hand back and climbed out of the car. Stiles waited for him to round the front before doing the same, the two of them heading towards the large sign that was the entrance to the vault. Stiles looked around while he waited for Derek to get it open, and once the sign shifted to the side, Stiles paused when he was about to take his first step. 

The lights were on downstairs. 

He supposed it was entirely possible that they’d forgotten to turn them off the last time they’d come by, or that Peter had recently been there and forgotten himself, but it became clear after a few seconds that nobody had forgotten to turn the lights off.

Peter appeared at the bottom of the stairs, giving them both a look now that Derek had moved up behind Stiles. “Really, nephew? The school year has started, perhaps you should consider coming in through the other door?” 

“There’s another door?” Stiles asked, turning to Derek. 

With an eye roll, he nudged Stiles forward to make him go down the stairs, waiting for him to clear the top of the sign before moving out of sight and closing the entrance once more. Stiles assumed Derek figured his uncle had a point, since it didn’t look like the entrance could be closed from the inside and it wasn’t like they should leave it hanging open. 

Peter offered Stiles a smile before patting his shoulder once, squeezing, and then tugging him further into the vault. “Hello, little Spark. Come for some reading material?” 

“Yeah,” he admitted, looking around to spot the other door. He didn’t see anything that looked like an entrance, but then again, the sign’s entrance didn’t look like one either from the inside, now that it was closed. “Just wanted to grab a few things so I can have as much of a head start as possible.” 

“With your mind, I’m sure that won’t be difficult.” Peter stopped them in front of one of the shelves and motioned it. “Help yourself.” 

“Thanks.” Stiles moved forward and began to run his fingers along the spines of the old, weathered books. He kept an eye on Peter out of his periphery and noticed him sorting through some books on the floor, a few of them open with notes scribbled in the margins. The Werewolf snapped them shut when he seemed to realize Stiles was paying attention to him. 

“It’s not polite to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Peter informed him coolly. 

“I just think it’s interesting that you don’t want him to know what you’re doing for him,” Stiles said, giving up the pretense of looking for books and turning to face Peter fully. “All the Witch healing books I’ve grabbed lately have had notes from you in them. You’re trying to figure out how to break his curse.” 

“You think too highly of me,” Peter said with a small, malicious smile. “I much prefer him when he isn’t arguing with me.” 

“Don’t need to be a Werewolf to hear the lie there,” Stiles informed him. 

Before Peter could retort, there was a loud scraping sound and Stiles jumped, turning to look past a few shelves. He couldn’t see anything, but the scraping sound came again moments before Derek rounded the corner, evidently having come through the other entrance and closed it once more. 

He cocked an eyebrow at Stiles and Peter, since they were both just standing there staring at him, but didn’t dwell on it and waved a hand at the shelves. Stiles turned back to them and continued reading the spines while Derek came to join him. 

Peter said nothing while he continued gathering his various items, but he handed over two of the books he’d been using before pulling a few more off the shelf and dumping them on top in Stiles’ arms. He ended up with seven books, and wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to read them all before the weekend, but he’d try. 

They all left the vault together through the second entrance, which led into the basement of the school. It wasn’t in session right now barring extra-curriculars, so it was easy for them to exit undetected. Peter walked them back to Derek’s Camaro, wished them safe travels since he doubted he’d see them again before they left, and headed for his own car parked on the other side of the mostly empty lot. 

Stiles watched him go while he buckled himself in, frowning at the man’s back. When Derek poked at him to get his attention, he smiled and decided to keep Peter’s weirdness to himself. After all, maybe Peter didn’t want Derek to know he was trying to break his curse in case it didn’t work. As long as he shared what he found with Stiles so that he could help, he didn’t see the harm in keeping Peter’s secret. 

Namely, that he apparently had a heart. 

“Let’s go, I’m starving.” Stiles re-arranged the books in his lap, flipping the first one open while Derek eased out of the school’s lot, and pressed his lips together when he saw the angry scrawls across the first page. 

Peter was very clearly losing patience with the books not giving him results. Stiles was sure the feeling would very quickly be mutual.

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Star Wars (c) George Lucas  
> \- Doctor Who (c) Sydney Newman  
> \- Treasure Island (c) Robert Louis Stevenson  
> \- Treasure Planet (c) Disney  
> \- Harry Potter (c) J.K. Rowling  
> \- Cookie Monster (c) Jim Henson  
> \- Maleficent (c) Disney


	8. The Witch and the Alpha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to push up my posting schedule by an hour because of that ONE READER (you know who you are, YOU _KNOW_!!!!!) who is three hours ahead of me and REFUSES to sleep before the chapter's up! So congratulations, you made me cave to ensure you get an ADEQUATE AMOUNT OF SLEEP! Well done |<

Stiles was exhausted and cold when they finally reached their destination in Wyoming. It was barely the end of September, and they’d hit a freak snow storm. In fucking _September_! Better than snow in July like Canada had, but this wasn’t Canada, this was fucking _Wyoming_. Needless to say, he was not happy. 

The only good thing about this entire ordeal was that Peter and Stiles’ new teacher had agreed the best place for training was away from prying eyes, so they’d both rented out cabins for the month out in the woods, which worked out well for Derek because he didn’t like when too many people were around. 

They’d stopped in the closest town to load up on groceries and various necessities, then headed out towards the address Deaton had given them. Stiles ended up having to use the GPS on his phone because it was off the beaten path, but they managed to get there with enough daylight left to get all their things inside. They mostly dumped them all in the front entrance, wanting to get stuff indoors before the sun completely set, and once everything was in the cabin, Derek locked up the Camaro, then headed inside with Stiles. 

As usual with a new, unfamiliar place, Derek held Stiles’ arm while he did a quick sweep of the cabin. It wasn’t anything like Stiles imagined a cabin would be. He always envisioned wooden floors and walls, antlers and throw rugs and whatnot. A rustic kind of feel to it. 

This cabin looked more like a little house. It _did_ have hardwood floors, but the walls were plaster and painted in earth tones, the couches were grey faux-leather, there was a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above a modern-looking fireplace, and the kitchen had marble counter-tops and tile flooring. 

The bathroom looked modern and sported both a tub and a shower stall, along with a toilet and a huge vanity. There was a small closet set right beside the bathroom door which had a set of shelves for towels, as well as a stacked washer/dryer set, and there were two bedrooms. 

Stiles figured Peter had just taken what he could find, because in no universe would Derek ever let Stiles sleep out of his sight. Both rooms had two beds, one sporting two queens, and the other two doubles. He figured cabins were more for friends to hang out than actual families, so that was likely why there was no official ‘master bedroom.’ 

Once the place was deemed safe, Derek turned to Stiles after releasing him and motioned the rooms in question. Stiles just snorted and nodded towards the one with the queen beds. 

“You’re a giant, you really think you can fit on one of those doubles?” 

Derek rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment and just went back to the front to grab their duffels. He brought both into the room with the queens while Stiles headed out to put the food away. 

It took them no time at all to get organized in the little cabin, and Derek got started on dinner once they were settled in, opening and closing almost every cupboard in the kitchen to find what he needed. Stiles watched him for a while before getting bored and heading to the bedroom to find one of the books he hadn’t managed to finish yet. 

Eidetic memory or not, that meant nothing if he couldn’t read the material fast enough. He’d done the best he could, but he still had two and a half books left. A lot of stuff he’d read was duplicated though, so he figured he’d find out whether it mattered too much when he met his new teacher on Monday, two days away. 

They’d made good time getting to Wyoming, but Stiles wished they’d just stayed home. 

It was weird, when he thought about it, how much he viewed Beacon Hills as home. How much the loft was _home_. How much he hated the place when Derek wasn’t there with him. 

He supposed a part of him was used to having a constant person in his life, and after his dad, Derek was it. Not to mention they worked well together, and slowly but surely, he was starting to pick away at that armour Derek had around himself. Of course, he felt like Derek was a lot more touchy-feely than he liked to be, but his condition kind of made that a necessity. Still, it was nice that they were at a comfortable place where things were easy. 

Being around Derek as a Spark was _easy_. He never pushed, and he never asked for anything he couldn’t have. He didn’t treat Stiles like a weapon, but more like something precious he wanted to keep shielded and safe. Stiles, in turn, did his best to act like Derek’s lack of ability to speak wasn’t a big deal. He’d gotten really good at reading him, and most times they could actually have full conversations with Derek just gesticulating and Stiles replying. 

It seemed to make Derek happy, at any rate. Like he was relieved someone understood him without words. Not like he made it hard, in Stiles’ opinion. He was extremely easy to read. 

Stiles was still in the middle of reading the book with his legs thrown over the side of the couch and his back on the cushions when he heard light knocking. Dropping the book and glancing down the length of his body, he saw Derek motion him over to the counter, since the cabin didn’t have a table. Evidently, dinner was ready. 

Tossing the book aside and getting to his feet with a grunt, he wandered over to one of the stools while Derek got comfortable on one of the others and let out a sound of dismay. 

“Corn? Dude, I _hate_ corn, you know this. When did you even _get_ corn?” He hadn’t seen him grab it, but had to thank his lucky stars that it was at least _canned_ corn. He’d have rioted if Derek tried to get him to eat corn on the cob.

At least there were some oven-baked potatoes and a hunk of chicken, so that was comforting, but corn? Ugh. 

Derek just patted the stool in a silent order for Stiles to sit and stop being a baby. 

“I hate corn,” he muttered, falling onto the stool and beginning to pick at his food like a petulant child. Derek gave him a look for that, but just shoved another bite of chicken into his mouth. 

Stiles ate around all the corn, the chicken tender and delicious, and the potatoes perfect because it was hard to fuck up potatoes. Derek watched him the whole time, and once he finished without touching the corn and went to stand, the Werewolf pressed a hand to his shoulder and forced him back down, giving him a clear, “Eat your vegetables,” look. 

“Technically, corn isn’t a vegetable,” Stiles informed him. “I mean, it can be, but it is also considered both a grain _and_ a fruit, as well. So really, I could argue that I don’t need to eat this because you didn’t _technically_ put a vegetable on my plate.” 

Derek scowled at him, though it was more thoughtfully than in annoyance, like he didn’t know what Stiles was talking about. 

Stiles very helpfully pulled up Google on his phone and typed in, ‘is corn a vegetable?’ before handing the phone over to Derek. The Werewolf read it, grunted, then turned the phone back to Stiles and pointed at the part where corn on the cob was considered a vegetable. 

“True, but this isn’t on the cob. These are kernels. And it says right _there_ ,” he pointed beneath where Derek was, “that the kernels are considered more of a _grain_.” 

Derek looked unimpressed and tapped at the section that described the kernel, which was more along the lines of the ones used to make popcorn. Technically speaking, what was on Stiles’ plate _did_ constitute as a vegetable, whether he wanted to believe it or not. 

“I hate corn,” he whined. “You couldn’t have bought, like, _carrots_ or something? Or even Brussel sprouts?”

Derek’s look of disgust was louder than any words he could’ve spoken, clearly asking, “Who likes Brussel sprouts?!” 

“ _I_ do, jackass!” Stiles smacked him in the arm and Derek gave him another disgusted look. Stiles flipped him off, taking his phone back, and went to stand again. Derek just pushed him back down into his seat, making Stiles let out a loud whine. “You’re not gonna let me get up until I eat this, are you?” 

Derek’s smile was pure evil and Stiles groaned. Neither of them moved for a few seconds, then Derek sighed, glanced towards the kitchen, then back at Stiles before pulling his own phone out and typing the number two, holding it out to Stiles. Stiles frowned for a second, then shifted his gaze to try and determine what Derek had been looking at, and immediately perked up when he realized it was the cookies. 

Derek had been policing his cookie intake lately, which wasn’t a bad thing since Stiles could literally eat an entire pack of them in one sitting. He didn’t know why, he’d never been big on sweet stuff barring chocolate, but ever since he’d started doing magic, it was like he wanted sugar injected straight into his veins. He’d been eating so many damn cookies, it was probably bad for his health, hence the policing. 

But now, Derek was giving him the opportunity to have _two_ cookies, and that was almost worth eating corn for. 

“Three,” he bargained. Derek just snorted and tapped the screen of his phone where the number two was still showing. “How about two today, two tomorrow?” 

Derek seemed to think about it, evidently weighing the pros and cons, then motioned Stiles’ plate, most likely in a way that meant only if he finished _all_ the corn on it. 

“You drive a hard bargain,” he argued, but obediently forced himself to eat the disgusting little pieces of grossness. Stiles was fine with popcorn, popcorn was delicious. But corn was just— _bleh_. He didn’t like it. It tasted weird and rubbery and basically had no flavour to it without smothering it in butter and salt. 

When his plate was clean, Derek finally let him stand up, Stiles grabbing both sets of dishes and washing them since Derek had done all the cooking. He rubbed his hands together while staring at the different cookies he’d bought and decided to grab one double-chocolate Tim Tam, and one chocolate chip Chips Ahoy cookie. Variety was important. 

He and Derek went back to the couch together where Stiles proceeded to sit in the most awkward pose he could manage with his book, and Derek took up residence at the end of the couch with his own book. Stiles was jealous Derek got to read fiction as opposed to boring Witch magic. 

Not that it was boring, Stiles was just tired of reading about it, at this point. He wanted to just be able to snap his fingers and master it, but that wasn’t how life worked, unfortunately. 

Stiles called it quits first, heading to the bathroom so he could shower. When he exited, Derek was hanging out outside the door, and it occurred to Stiles that he didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone in the cabin. Stiles sighed while towelling his hair, sweats riding low on his hips and oversized shirt comfortable in the cooling weather. 

The cabin was _not_ warm. 

“I’m not gonna have to hang out in the bathroom with you again, am I?” 

Derek’s expression proved that was _kind of_ what he wanted Stiles to do, but he eventually glanced at the door, then motioned the bedroom with very emphatic jabs. Stiles flapped his hand at him while heading towards the bedroom and went to sit on the bed furthest from the door. It was also closest to the window, but it didn’t open all the way, which meant whoever came through there would have to break it and Derek would _definitely_ hear that. 

Stiles heard the shower cut on, but the door didn’t shut, which meant Derek was showering with the door open. At least it was progress from before, likely because Derek was protective, but recognized that Stiles wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Besides, they weren’t friends back when he’d forced Stiles to stay in the bathroom while he showered, so it had been just as much Derek making sure Stiles didn’t run off on him as it had been keeping him close so he stayed safe. 

Looking around the room while bouncing slightly on the bed, Stiles stood to dig his charger out of the side pocket of his duffel and went to plug it into the outlet by his nightstand. He stuck the end into the bottom of his phone, then sat cross-legged on his bed while opening his texts. 

**[Stiles]**  
didn’t die \o/ 

**[Scott]**  
considering dereks driving tats surprising  
**[Scott]**  
hows the cabin?

 **[Stiles]**  
I like it  
**[Stiles]**  
I was expecting an old hunting lodge  
**[Stiles]**  
like you see in movies  
**[Stiles]**  
but it’s actually really nice  
**[Stiles]**  
super modern

 **[Scott]**  
cant believe ur out there alone with D  
**[Scott]**  
howre u not wanting to murder him allatiems?

Stiles didn’t understand everyone’s discomfort with Derek. Most people said he was an asshole, and others just didn’t like how uncomfortable his silence made them. But that made Stiles sad, because these people were his _pack_. Sure, Laura was the original Alpha, but once she’d died and it had become Derek, the people in it should’ve been showing him the same level of respect they had her. 

Instead, they avoided him as much as they could. Even Cora, despite clearly caring for her brother and wanting him to be safe and happy, kept her distance more often than not. She’d been happy to have him back in town, but she barely made an effort to see him. Usually it was Derek who went to visit _her_ , even though she’d been the first to whine about him not going to see her upon his arrival back in Beacon Hills. 

**[Stiles]**  
I like derek  
**[Stiles]**  
wouldn’t be living with him if I didn’t 

**[Scott]**  
like u hav a choice

 **[Stiles]**  
I like spending time with derek  
**[Stiles]**  
maybe you would too if you gave him two seconds of your time

 **[Scott]**  
hey hey  
**[Scott]**  
calm down  
**[Scott]**  
I was just sayin

 **[Stiles]**  
and I’m just answering  
**[Stiles]**  
amyway I have a long day of reading tomorrow  
**[Stiles]**  
I’m gonna go to bed  
**[Stiles]**  
night 

**[Scott]**  
ok  
**[Scott]**  
night  
**[Scott]**  
glad u made it safely

Stiles tossed the phone back onto the nightstand in annoyance and kicked at the covers to get under them, lying down and yanking them up to his chin. His feet were cold from the brief stint of being out of the shower and not having them covered. He waited all of one minute before tossing the blankets off and moving to grab some socks, pulling them on before heading back to the bed. 

Derek joined him in the room almost ten minutes later, wandering in with his clothes balled up under one arm, wearing dark grey sweats and no shirt, because apparently it wasn’t cold. Fucking Werewolves.

He also had the dictionary and notebook in his free hand, which he dropped on the bed before turning to shove his dirty clothes into one of the plastic bags their groceries had been in as some form of makeshift laundry basket. 

Stiles had just left his in a heap on the floor in the bathroom. And now he wondered if maybe half of those clothes in Derek’s arms weren’t his. Whoops. 

When Derek went back to his bed and picked up the dictionary, Stiles sat up, figuring he wanted to chat, but he just handed the notebook over to him and then waited, sitting on the edge of his bed. Stiles frowned, unsure he understood, and Derek cocked an eyebrow before opening the dictionary and pointing to a single word, Stiles craning his neck to see it. 

_question_

“Oh. Right.” He didn’t know that today really counted, if he was honest. Sure, he’d spent the whole day focussed on his reading, but he’d also been stuck in a car the whole time. Derek had insisted on driving, as usual, and while it should’ve taken them closer to nineteen hours to get to their destination, they’d made it there in about fourteen. 

Stiles had slept most of the morning, and had spent the rest of the time reading, but it hardly counted as him being _focussed_. Wasn’t like he had anything else to _do_ , after all. Aside from bug Derek, but he could do that whenever he wanted. 

He almost opened his mouth to say that they could skip today, because his conversation with Scott had soured his mood, but he managed to swallow the words down before they escaped him. If he said something like that, Derek might take it the wrong way. He might think it meant Stiles didn’t want to know about him anymore, and it could damage their understanding of one another. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to ask him anything, he was just grumpy and bitter now. 

But, Derek sat there, waiting on him to make up his mind. And Stiles couldn’t deny him. Not when he was virtually the only person who made an effort with him. It would be borderline cruel, and he didn’t want Derek to think he didn’t care. He just didn’t want to explain why he was in a bad mood, either. 

His mind wandered to why they were there, and all the books he’d been reading of late, and all the notes Peter had written down. He thought about Derek’s curse, about what Deaton had said, about _why_ Derek had been cursed to begin with. 

It was a dangerous question to ask, but at the end of the day, he had to wonder if anyone had ever gotten an answer on it. He wondered if maybe nobody had figured out how to break it because they didn’t _understand_ it. 

“Okay,” he said quietly, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants and grabbing the notebook. He stood up to sit beside Derek on the Werewolf’s bed, since it would be harder for him to see what he was pointing at. “Okay. So I’m gonna ask you something, and it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, but I just—I want to know so I can help. Figure things out. See what we can do about it.” 

Derek already looked a little wary, eying Stiles suspiciously. Considering, he probably knew where this was headed, but at least he didn’t immediately shut Stiles down. 

“Deaton said... back when we first got to Beacon Hills, and he was telling me everything about, well, both of us, I guess.” Stiles licked his lips, watching Derek before continuing. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it. About your time there. With _her_. And I don’t want you to,” he said quickly, because he could see Derek’s face hardening and his entire frame tense, clearly in shut down mode. “I don’t want to talk about what happened. I don’t—honestly, I don’t think I want to know. You’ve—been through a lot. You haven’t had an easy life, and I’m really sorry about that. But Deaton said that you were cursed because she wanted you to say something. You wouldn’t, so she cursed you so that you couldn’t say anything unless you said that to her. I just... want to know what it was. I want to see if there’s anything I can do.” 

Derek didn’t move for a long while, just staring at Stiles. The room was silent save for the cabin settling and the leaves rustling outside. It seemed to take an eternity for Derek to finally open the dictionary, and Stiles held his breath while pages were flipped, writing down the words before deflating. 

_you can not help_

“You don’t know that,” Stiles said quietly, knowing it wasn’t a jab at his shoddy magic but likely more linked to the curse itself. “I can’t if you don’t let me try.” 

Derek just stared at him for a long time, then clenched his jaw, looked back down at the dictionary, and opened it back up. He was tense the entire time he flipped through the pages, making abrupt, jerky movements, and stabbing almost angrily at the words. Stiles wrote them all down and winced when Derek snapped the dictionary shut, clearly unhappy. 

Stiles thought he was mad at him, until he read what Derek had just told him, and realized he was just mad about how it had happened. 

_she want me to say I love her and mean it I would not so she curse me not to speak until I do you can not help only she can break it_

Stiles felt his gorge rise, along with anger. This disgusting woman had taken Derek when he was still a fucking _minor_ , had forced him to be her _pet_ , and had cursed him because he wouldn’t tell her he loved her. She’d stolen almost everything from him, barring what Stiles himself had stolen. To be fair, Stiles hadn’t known about it, and hadn’t done it on purpose, and he _still_ felt terrible about it. 

But Kate Argent? She didn’t care. She wanted what she wanted, and fuck anyone who got in her way. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Stiles said quietly, ignoring the way Derek was grinding his teeth angrily. “I know I’m not much right now, but rumour has it I’m supposed to be pretty fucking epic.” He nudged Derek lightly, forcing a half-smile. Derek didn’t look at him, but at least he nudged him back. 

Stiles knew this was going to bug him a lot, learning what had caused the curse. If Derek said no one but Kate could break it, he was probably right. He probably knew more about how the curse had been cast, and knew that it was too specific for anyone but Kate to break.

He wondered if maybe killing Kate would break it, or if it would continue on long after her passing. Not that he was planning on being a murderer or anything, but it was just a thought. Did a curse of this nature disappear once the caster ceased to be? Or would it just solidify and go on forever with the only person who could break it no longer alive? 

Something to think on, he supposed. Depending on how things went with his new teacher, he might ask her about it. He wasn’t sure how he’d do that, considering Derek would be right there, but he’d think on it. Anything to get a bit of a break. Even just partially ending the curse would be enough. So that Derek could nod and shake his head, or write, or even _sign_. Anything so he wasn’t completely incapable of speaking without having to resort to pointing at words in a fucking dictionary. 

When Derek nudged him again, Stiles turned to him and forced a smile, not liking the concerned look on the Werewolf’s face. 

“All good, big guy. Just thinking.” He smacked him lightly in the chest with the back of his hand, then raked a hand through his damp hair. “Anyway, it’s late, and you didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

Stiles took the dictionary from Derek and set both it and the notebook on the nightstand beside his phone. Derek stood up to get his own charger and plugged his phone in beside Stiles’ before getting the light.

They both climbed into their respective beds, Stiles calling a good night to Derek and getting a grunt in return. He smiled slightly, trying not to dwell too much on what he’d just learned until he understood Witch magic better, and rolled onto his side so his back was to Derek, closing his eyes for sleep. 

The bed was comfortable, and while his feet were still cold, the blankets were doing a decent job of keeping him mostly warm. The room itself was chilly though, and he anticipated problems sleeping once it got colder. The place didn’t seem to have great insulation, and no heating barring the fireplace out in the main room. He was sure he would be miserable by the time October hit next week. 

Silence stretched out for a long while, Stiles listening to Derek breathe in the bed behind him. The wind was still rustling leaves outside, and occasionally some kind of animal would let out a loud sound or scamper through the forest outside their little cabin. Every time it did, Stiles’ heart would stutter in his chest, beat double-time for about a minute, and then calm down when he realized everything was fine.

It was weird, because he knew Derek was _right there_. Literally in the bed right next to him. But it was _different_. They were in a foreign place, and Stiles had gotten used to the loft, so he was already out of his element. And Derek was always a strong and warm presence at his back. 

They didn’t cuddle together or anything while they slept, not like Cora had been doing the few days she’d been in the same bed as him. Stiles usually slept with his back to Derek, and he was pretty sure Derek slept on his back, or on his side facing the door. So really, it should be easy to pretend that Derek was right there, because it wasn’t like they were ever in each other’s space while they slept. 

But it was _weird_. Because Stiles sometimes kicked out and hit him. And Derek would occasionally nudge him while rearranging his position in his sleep. And he was used to hearing Derek’s breathing from much closer, and the bed dipping ever so slightly at the weight of another person, and the mattress creaking and shifting whenever Derek moved. 

He knew Derek was right there, but it wasn’t the same. 

Stiles tossed and turned for a good hour, getting more and more frustrated as time passed. Eventually, being awake made him unsure about whether or not he needed to use the bathroom, so he just grumbled to himself and tossed the covers off, getting out of bed and wincing as the cold hit him. Great, he was going to be a popsicle when he got back to bed. 

Derek sat up, red eyes flashing in the darkness, and Stiles just waved one hand at him dismissively while he headed for the door. 

“Bathroom. Sorry I woke you.” 

The way Derek’s eyes followed him, awake and alert, made Stiles feel like he _hadn’t_ woken him. Maybe Derek had just been lying in bed same as he had, just with less tossing and turning. 

Stiles kept the bedroom door open while he went to the bathroom, and hesitated before leaving that one open, too. Derek didn’t follow him, but he was leaning against the bedroom doorway with his arms crossed once Stiles had flushed and washed his hands. 

“Can’t sleep?” he asked. Derek shrugged one shoulder in response. “Yeah, it’s weird being somewhere unfamiliar. Considering how I grew up, you’d think I’d be used to it, but I guess it’s different now that I know people are after me.” 

Derek moved aside so Stiles could enter the room first, then shut the door behind himself. They both climbed back into bed, Stiles doing so a bit more slowly since the room was fairly dark and he wasn’t super familiar with its layout yet. When he was back in bed, he stayed sitting up, blankets pulled up over his legs and turned to look at Derek. 

The Werewolf was lying down again, but his head was turned, red eyes locked on Stiles, as if waiting for him to lie back down himself before pretending to attempt sleep. 

They stared at one another for a few seconds, then Stiles sighed and kicked the covers off himself, standing up. Derek shifted over before Stiles had even taken one step towards his bed, throwing the blankets back. Stiles climbed in beside him, pulled the covers back up, muttered a good night, and rolled onto his side with his back to Derek. He felt Derek shift around behind him, getting comfortable again, and then settling. 

Stiles closed his eyes, and was asleep in under five minutes, listening to Derek’s calm, steady breathing behind him. 

* * *

“Why did it have to be Wyoming?” Stiles demanded grumpily, jumping on the spot and rubbing at his arms vigorously. He was glad he’d brought a hoodie—well, _more_ than one—but a hoodie wasn’t exactly the best outer-wear when they woke up to frost on the ground and snow in the forecast. It was still _September_! Granted, only for five more days, but _still_! 

Stupid global warming. Stupid weather. Stiles wanted to be inside their little cabin, curled up on the couch in front of the fire drinking hot chocolate or coffee, and eating crackers. Derek had bought _the best_ crackers at the store when they’d driven up, and Stiles was now obsessed with them. He hoped Beacon Hills had them too, or he was going to demand a roadtrip once a month to stock up. 

Derek, asshole Werewolf that he was, stood at the edge of the clearing Stiles was jumping up and down in leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. He was only wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, nothing else overtop. Like the cold didn’t bother him. It probably didn’t, since Werewolves ran hotter, but _still_! A little solidarity would’ve been appreciated. He could’ve at least _pretended_ to be cold!

Stiles kept jumping up and down, still relatively close to Derek since they were in unfamiliar territory, and pulled his phone out to check the time. He’d received a text from Peter late last night with coordinates to this clearing, advising that this was where his teacher wanted to meet. Peter hadn’t wanted to give the woman his number, because the less she had about Stiles, the better. 

That meant Peter was stuck playing go-between, but he didn’t seem to mind. Or at least, he liked being in a position where he dictated everything, which was pretty par for the course with Peter, really. 

It was five to eight in the morning, still relatively dark, and fucking _freezing_. Stiles wanted to get to work before his toes fell off from the cold. 

He turned to glare at Derek, who looked over at him when he noticed Stiles staring, and got a small smirk in response. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Asshole.” 

“Do not worry, the cold will be appreciated once we begin.” 

“Jesus fuck!” Stiles shouted, flailing violently and whipping around. Derek hadn’t reacted, which meant he either hadn’t heard the woman approach, or he didn’t deem her a threat. 

Stiles instantly determined it was that he hadn’t heard her approach, because Derek was at his side immediately, hand gripping Stiles’ arm tightly and flashing red eyes at the woman. He didn’t understand at first, because they were expecting his teacher, so Derek’s reaction was a bit hostile. 

But when he glanced at the woman in front of him, he felt his blood run cold when she responded to Derek in kind, her own eyes flashing a bright crimson. She was an older woman of Asian descent, possibly Japanese if Stiles had to guess. She held herself ramrod straight and exuded power, as well as authority. It was very clear she was one of those people who demanded respect, and treated others fairly provided they showed her the same courtesy. 

“You must be Peter’s nephew,” she said, looking at Stiles. It took him a second to remember that the cover story for this was that Stiles had recently come into his magic and was Peter’s nephew. Derek was meant to be his overprotective born-mute best friend. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said after much too long a pause. “Uh, yeah. I’m uh, Paul.” He wished he’d thought ahead on a name, because he definitely would’ve chosen something better. Too late now. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression I was here to meet a Witch for training.” 

“That would be me,” she said, inclining her head slightly. It was clear she wanted to approach to offer her hand, but Derek was growling low in the back of his throat, so she stayed where she was with her hands folded in front of herself. “I am Satomi Ito. I’ve been asked to help you with your newfound abilities.” 

Stiles stared at her. “What?” 

“I was under the impression you’d been informed of our arrangement, given you have clearly received the message to meet me here this morning.” 

“No. I mean yeah, I just—you’re a Werewolf.” 

“Yes,” she said. “I am Alpha to my pack back in New Mexico. I was asked to come to Wyoming for the training. Accommodations were arranged for me, and your uncle was very persuasive, it was hard to decline.” 

“But—so you’re a Werewolf _and_ a Witch?” Stiles asked. 

She inclined her head again. “I was born a Witch, mastered my abilities, and was bitten in my late twenties. It is not common for someone to be able to be both magic _and_ a wolf, but I survived somehow, and have made it my life’s mission to protect those who cannot protect themselves.” She eyed Stiles. “Does this bother you? I would have thought my being a Werewolf wouldn’t concern you, given your friend.” 

Stiles let out a loud, awkward laugh. “Werewolf and Witch. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Totally fine. Not a problem at all, no problems here, not even the _illusion_ of a problem.” Stiles turned to Derek, giving him a clear, “We are _so_ fucked!” look. 

Did Peter know this woman was both a Witch _and_ a Werewolf?! Or had the Werewolf part of it been left out? It was one thing when Derek and Stiles had been talking about taking down a Witch if she tried to go after him in a malicious way, but this was _entirely_ different. She was an Alpha Werewolf, therefore on par with Derek. _And_ she was an experienced Witch, meaning much better than Stiles. If it came down to a fight, Stiles was pretty sure they would lose. 

“I’m not sure what the concern is,” Satomi said calmly, politely, “however I can sense your anxiety. I am only here to train you, as I have been asked to do. If you would prefer someone else, I can advise Peter this wasn’t a good fit and be on my way.” 

Stiles glanced back at her, then turned to Derek once more. The Werewolf was glaring at her, eyes still bright red, but Stiles realized Satomi had only flashed hers at Derek. They were back to their normal colour now, like she hadn’t been threatening Derek, merely acknowledging his assumptions that she was also a Werewolf. 

This kind of threw a wrench into things, but Stiles was hoping this wasn’t about to bite him in the ass. After all, she’d said she helped protect people who couldn’t protect themselves, and according to Deaton, she was one of the best Witches on this side of the border. As long as Stiles didn’t do anything Spark-like, he could just get through the next four weeks with her, learn everything he needed to learn, and then go home. 

Easy peasy rice and cheesy. 

Derek didn’t like it, as was made clear by his hard expression, but he and Stiles just had a silent conversation with their eyebrows and a few head jerks until the Werewolf finally released his arm and turned to glare at Satomi. 

She hadn’t moved an inch since arriving, which was promising, at least. 

Stiles wiped his hands on his jeans, clearing his throat, then cast one last glance at Derek before moving forward. He held one hand out for her to take, the two of them shaking before she began asking him questions. 

He’d braced himself for personal things that would have her figuring him out in a heartbeat, but aside from asking about his age, she didn’t move any further than that. All her questions related to his magic. How long he’d known, what he’d been doing to date, what books he’d read, what spells he could do. She was very strict, but kind of like one of those teachers who wanted her students to succeed and thus came across as being mean when she was really just passionate. 

If Stiles had to label her, she’d be a solid McGonnagall, hands down. She had that kind of feel to her, and she was surprisingly patient, which was good because Stiles was a bit all over the place. 

They didn’t do much in way of spellwork on the first day. It was more Satomi asking him questions and trying to get a feel for where he was in level. She explained that magic—well, specifically _Witch_ magic, but given she thought _he_ was a Witch too, she just said _magic_ —wasn’t something to be learned overnight. The point of this entire learning experience wasn’t for him to master everything in a month, but more for her to show him all that he _could_ do and how to channel it so that he could practice and improve on his own. 

Stiles was on board with that, and he actually liked that she was honest about his abilities. She didn’t sugarcoat it and promise he’d be an expert in a matter of days. She gave him the facts, forced him to recognize his own limitations, and provided guidance on how to move forward. It was actually really nice, and everything he’d wanted since learning what he was. 

They took a short break for lunch, though only Satomi left the clearing. Derek and Stiles had brought sandwiches and bottled water, so they sat by the edge on a large boulder and ate in silence, Stiles chewing thoughtfully. 

The second half of the afternoon was Stiles showing her what he _could_ do, which was mostly the shield spell, and a few of the other ones he’d previously practised on Derek. This time, he did them on Satomi, because she was so advanced that she could dispel them without too much effort and could gage his level. She was actually fairly impressed with his shield, which he tried not to be too smug about given he’d literally mastered it to save cookies from a thieving Werewolf. 

Before they parted ways a little after five, when the sun began to set and darkness fell over them, she asked what he was looking to learn first. He wanted to say healing, but practicality told him to choose protection, so Satomi confirmed they would begin in the morning and bid them a good evening. Derek made Stiles wait in the cold evening air for ten minutes after she’d left to make sure she was well and truly _gone_ before they headed back to the cabin. 

Stiles was feeling fairly optimistic about things, and he ended up chatting with Peter while sitting on the kitchen counter, watching Derek cook. Apparently, Peter _hadn’t_ known Satomi was a Werewolf, and was pretty pissed about it. For now, things were okay though, and Stiles really liked her, so he didn’t bring up calling the whole thing off. 

Because he was going to spend virtually a whole month training on magic, Derek showed him pity when he went to grab his book and instead replaced it with _Treasure Island_ , which he’d yet to read considering his life. He’d beamed at him and then gotten comfortable lying down on the couch, taking up the entirety of it. 

Derek had just snorted and forced him to lift his feet up so he could sit down. Stiles had retaliated by sticking his feet in Derek’s face, laughing at the horrified look that earned him and pretending to kick at him while Derek tried to get his feet away from his face. Eventually they settled with Stiles’ feet in Derek’s lap, the two of them reading quietly. Stiles was usually always moving his free hand in some way while he read, but he always felt really calm and at peace with Derek. 

He missed listening to music most of the time, but he felt like a part of him didn’t anymore because of Derek. It just seemed weird to listen to music, almost like he was ignoring Derek’s entire existence. To be fair, that was why he’d always done it back when he used to live with his dad, so it wasn’t like the reason behind it was surprising. 

Stiles let his book fall when he realized he still hadn’t heard what had happened to his father’s body. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten, it was impossible to forget, but he just... had bouts where he didn’t think about it. Where other things took precedence, like staying alive, and helping Derek, and learning how to not be such a burden. 

He stared at the ceiling, feeling his chest clench, and jerked slightly when Derek’s warm hand fell against his ankle. He glanced over at him and saw the Werewolf frowning, looking concerned. 

“I’m fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “Just... thinking about dad.” He shut the book on his chest, frowning slightly. “I guess I always thought he would be buried beside mom. So they could be together, you know? But I don’t even know what they did with his body. Did they cremate him? Is he just lying in a morgue somewhere, evidence of a case they still haven’t solved?” He winced, the tightness in his chest intensifying. “Anyway, doesn’t matter. Not gonna get that resolved, so shouldn’t dwell on it.” 

He threw his legs over the side and checked the time on his phone. “I’m gonna go shower and hit the hay early. I’m about to have a long month, so might as well rest while I can.” 

Derek watched him walk away and Stiles disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind himself. He leaned forward against it, forehead thunking against the wood, and shut his eyes. He wondered if there was ever going to be a time where he didn’t think about his father, and how much he’d ruined everything about the man’s life just by being born. 

He’d been forced to go on the run for his son, who’d treated him like shit a majority of his teenage years. He’d been yelled at, and ignored, and disobeyed for years and years. Stiles had never said ‘I love you’ back to him, and he kept having moments where he truly wondered if his father had died thinking Stiles didn’t love him.

He was mad at him back then, of course he was. But Stiles had never _hated_ his father. He’d always loved him, he just hadn’t said it. Some rebellious part of him insisting it was punishment for the shitty life he’d been forced to live. 

Stiles wished things had been different. He wished that they’d stayed in Beacon Hills, hidden away, safe and protected together. He wished he’d been told sooner about everything, even though he knew why he hadn’t. He wished a lot of things, but wishing wasn’t going to make them happen, and he knew that. 

Taking in a slow breath, he forced his eyes open and turned to brush his teeth. He realized just as he’d stepped out of his boxers that he hadn’t brought anything into the bathroom with him. Grabbing his towel and wrapping it around himself, he headed out to the bedroom so he could get his sweats and shirt, but paused just outside the door. 

Derek was standing hunched over the counter with his phone out and the dictionary open. Stiles frowned as he watched him flip through a few pages, pause to do something with his phone, and then continued flipping. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was taking pictures, and a thrill shot through him at the realization that Derek could _text_! 

Derek could actually _text_ people! Sure, it was probably slow and frustrating, and he likely had to crop the words so people would know which one on the page he was referring to, but Stiles was just thrilled that he was sticking it to Kate. 

Bitch thought she’d stolen everything from him by taking his voice and ability to properly communicate, but Derek was proving her wrong one day at a time, and Stiles was _thrilled_ about it! 

He grinned while heading into the bedroom to grab his clothes, feeling like things were looking up. 

* * *

Training with Satomi was as exhilarating as it was exhausting. She pushed Stiles exceptionally hard every day, reminding him that their time together was limited whenever he showed signs of fatigue or slowing down. The reminders usually gave him his second wind, as did food. 

Derek had been really good about the food lately, though it did make Stiles end up asking Satomi about the cookies. She admitted sugar was a good source of energy for replenishing magic, which explained why he’d been obsessed with cookies since he’d really started going at it with the spells. 

Having a teacher was doing wonders for his confidence, and apparently, he was a quick study. Stiles didn’t know if that was a him thing or a Spark thing, but Satomi was impressed with how well he could do the protective spells, and helped set him up for how to train on his own with the few spells she wasn’t planning on teaching him. 

Halfway through the month of October, they moved on to healing, which Stiles was eager to learn considering the last injuries he’d received had been horrible. He’d admitted to having healed himself up once and passing out, but just like he’d already been told, healing was one of the most draining forms of magic that existed, and he was a brand new Witch at the time he’d attempted those spells, so Satomi wasn’t surprised when she found out. 

It felt a little strange to be learning healing from a Werewolf, but Satomi was as patient and stern as she always was with this part of his training, and Stiles often went back to the cabin with Derek feeling a little disappointed that she couldn’t teach him _all_ magic. She was definitely his favourite teacher, nevermind he’d only had the one so far. He honestly didn’t think anyone could top her. 

By mid-month, it had gotten considerably colder, and the little cabin was _freezing_ at night. Stiles had started sleeping in one of his hoodies after spending the evening in front of the fire and taking a hot shower. Most nights, it worked and he was able to fall asleep with minimal shivering. 

Tonight was different. 

It had actually begun to snow halfway through the day, and while Satomi had asked if he wanted to finish early given Stiles was human and thus more susceptible to the cold, he’d powered through the rest of his training with her and kind of wished he’d started with healing. 

Protective spells required more movement, so he wasn’t sitting around in one place all day. Healing was more static, which meant the cold bit into him more easily since he wasn’t moving around. Still, it was worth it given he felt much more confident about a majority of his spellwork. If nothing else, he could protect himself against another attack. 

Apparently his shield _did_ stop bullets, so that was just his shock at seeing the gun. Lesson learned. 

He’d also mastered a really nifty cloaking spell, as well as a protective barrier spell, which he planned on using when they got home to surround their building with. It would make Derek feel more comfortable with leaving Stiles alone at home, at any rate, not that Stiles thought he ever _would_ considering Derek still didn’t leave his side unless another pack member was with him—and sometimes, not even then. 

But that was something to think about when they got home. Right now, all Stiles could focus on was the fact that the hot shower he was in was doing nothing for how cold he felt. He knew using his magic day after day for training was depleting his reserves and likely making him a little more vulnerable to the cold, but he couldn’t feel his toes and was standing under scalding hot water, and still he felt a bone-deep cold. 

“Stupid Wyoming,” he muttered, swiping one hand over his face, only for water to fall right back over it from the showerhead. “Stupid winter.” He wouldn’t have hated it so much if the damn cabin had heating. As it was, he honestly wasn’t sure he’d manage to get any sleep tonight. 

Once he was out of the shower and dried off, he could already feel himself trembling, the floor cold beneath his feet, and cool air seeping into the bathroom from under the door. The cabin was fucking modernized and didn’t have _heating_? What kind of bullshit place _was_ this? 

When he stepped out of the bathroom, Derek looked over from his stool at the kitchen counter, a book in his hands and one eyebrow raised. 

“All yours,” Stiles said, hugging himself tightly, his hoodie doing very little to keep out the chill. “See you in bed.” 

Derek just frowned, but said nothing while Stiles turned to shuffle back into the bedroom. The light was already off, since they usually turned it off after they left the room, so he just crawled up onto the bed and climbed beneath the covers, curling into a ball on his side with the blankets up over his head and hugging himself. 

He heard Derek shuffling out in the main part of the cabin, the shower turning on a moment later but the door remaining open, just as always. Stiles had long ago gotten used to Derek showering with the door open, and he knew it was more because it allowed him to hear better in case of an attack. 

Twenty-one days strong, so here was hoping the rest of the month would finish off well and they could head home without incident. It helped that the place seemed to be more of a summer getaway, given Stiles and Derek had stumbled upon a lake the first day when they’d been hunting for the clearing. It was too cold for swimmers right now, so the place was mostly deserted barring two Werewolves and a Spark-in-training. 

The most people Stiles saw were the ones at the store the next town over when he and Derek went to get groceries. One of the cashiers had a crush on Derek, and thought his strong silent type routine was _adorable_. Stiles had heard her gushing about it to another one of the cashiers one day, about how she thought Derek might be shy, and was basically being loud enough for someone _without_ super-hearing to hear her, which meant Derek _definitely_ did. 

Stiles could tell it bothered him, but he never reacted whenever she gushed about it. She just thought he was _so_ hot and that his silence was _so_ mysterious, and Stiles may or may not have reached his limit two days prior while hearing her from down the fucking aisle and seeing Derek’s hands clenching against the handle of the basket he was carrying. 

When they’d reached the till and the girl had started making small talk, Stiles told her, rather coldly, that Derek had lost his voice in a horrible accident and that her words about his silence were unappreciated. 

He’d never seen someone pale so quickly in his life, and while he’d felt a little bad about it when they’d gotten back in the car, he’d noticed Derek smiling slightly out of the corner of his eye, and the fact that Derek appreciated him coming to his defence made his guilt worth it. 

Derek’s shower was shorter than normal today, not that Stiles was necessarily keeping track, but it felt distinctly shorter than normal. He listened to him putz around in the bathroom and main area, and then the lights in the front were flicked off. Stiles could see the change when the hall light clicked off through his closed eyelids, and then the bedroom door shut quietly. 

He didn’t know why Derek was bothering, it was obvious Stiles was still awake. 

The covers were pulled back, Stiles letting out a small whine and curling in more on himself at the cold, but Derek slid into bed beside him quickly and pulled them back up. He took a few minutes to get settled and comfortable, then finally stilled, his breathing softening. 

Stiles could barely hear him over his own teeth chattering and every few seconds his entire frame shook. If doing this much magic was going to weaken him so much, maybe he needed a bit of a break, because he didn’t remember being this vulnerable to cold in the past. Then again, he also thought he might be catching a cold, because he’d been hanging out in the clearing every day for half a month, and had spent the past four days just _sitting_ in it while working on healing magic. 

He was definitely headed towards sickness, and he wasn’t looking forward to having a plugged nose while trying to do magic. He wondered if healing magic extended to colds, that would be fucking _amazing_! Where had _that_ been his entire life? 

The room was silent save for Derek’s breathing and Stiles’ shuddering breaths and occasional chattering teeth. He tried valiantly to close his eyes and force himself to sleep, but no matter how small of a ball he curled himself into, even with his head under the blankets, he was still cold. 

After about half an hour, he talked himself into getting out of bed and moved to the other one that hadn’t been touched since the first night. He yanked the blankets off that one as well, threw them onto his half of the bed, then climbed back into it, feeling like he must _really_ be getting sick. 

It helped, but not much. He made a mental note to talk to Satomi about this when he saw her in the morning. He was obviously suffering from magic deficiency, coupled with the beginnings of a cold and the lack of heating in this _freezing cold_ cabin. 

When his shaking didn’t stop after another good ten minutes, Derek finally shifted beside him and he felt a hand against his arm, squeezing tightly. Pulling the covers off his head, Stiles turned his head to look at him, and saw Derek frowning down at him, concerned. 

“How are you literally wearing only sweats right now?” Stiles demanded. “It’s fucking _cold_. How are you not cold? Fucking Werewolves,” he muttered, turning away from him again and pulling the blankets back over his head. 

Derek didn’t remove his hand for a few seconds, but eventually he did. There was silence for a moment, and then Stiles felt the Werewolf shift closer, the hand previously on his arm wrapping around him and tugging Stiles back into a hard, toned chest. 

The amount of heat radiating off him was astounding and Stiles’ eyes snapped open. He knew Werewolves ran hotter than most, everyone knew that. It was like, the number one thing people learned about Werewolves. Well, that, and that their shift had nothing to do with the moon cycles. 

He’d been around Derek long enough to know he ran hot, but he hadn’t realized _how_ hot until he was lying frozen in bed and had a veritable _furnace_ press against his back. 

“Oh sweet Jesus, yes,” Stiles said, rolling over so he was facing Derek and pressing his hands against his chest. Derek made a noise of displeasure, likely because Stiles’ hands were blocks of ice, but he didn’t pull away. He just wrapped his arms more securely around Stiles and held him closer. 

“Oh God,” Stiles moaned, cheek pressed against Derek’s chest. “You mean you let me suffer through this cold for all these weeks when I could’ve had my very own walking heater? Rude, Derek.” 

That earned him a snort, one hand moving up to lightly tug on the hair at the back of his head, a clear demand for him to shut up and sleep. 

Stiles thought he might actually _manage_ it this time, considering he was regaining feeling in his fingers. Derek really _was_ warm. He felt like he was abnormally warm, but maybe Stiles just didn’t realize Werewolves could _be_ this warm. It was weird, because he’d have thought summer would have them all roasting, but Derek had been fine in the summer, too. He hadn’t acted like he was ever bothered by the weather, and Stiles wondered if that was some kind of magical Werewolf ability he hadn’t heard of. 

Immunity to weather. Lucky them, Stiles hated both summer _and_ winter right now. They both sucked in their own right. Though winter was looking up, given the heater he slept with every night. 

“Thanks Derek,” he mumbled after a few minutes. He was now toasty warm and felt more confident about his various limbs surviving the night still attached to his body. He wasn’t overly hot, at least not yet, and the arms around him made him feel safe and protected. 

Derek let out a soft grunt, chin against the top of Stiles’ head, and he inhaled deeply, tightening his hold ever so slightly before loosening it, keeping Stiles tucked securely against his chest. 

Best night’s sleep Stiles had had all month. 

* * *

Stiles wasn’t sure how, but at some point between falling asleep and going to meet Satomi in the clearing, she’d found out about his constant feelings of being cold. Stiles didn’t know if Derek had managed to let Peter know, or if she’d just suspected it on her own originally and clued in officially when Stiles showed up wearing many, _many_ layers. 

That was when she invited them both back to her own cabin, something they hadn’t felt comfortable with at the beginning of the month but were now less concerned about. When they arrived, the fire was already going and Satomi went about getting some tea ready after offering Stiles and Derek some sugar crepes. 

It was while they waited for the water to heat that Satomi confirmed Stiles was over-using his magic, and that they should take a bit of a break. The spells he’d been working on over and over on a daily basis, coupled with the increased complexity of them, made it evident he was well past the safe levels of magic deficiency to the point where his body was starting to rebel, hence the shivers. 

Though the weather and lack of heating in the cabins didn’t help. 

She wasn’t willing to give him an official day off though, so Derek got to sit at the kitchen counter while Stiles and Satomi went to sit on the couch by the fire and she started giving him pointers on how to train on his own. 

She’d already given him a lot of tips and tricks, but this time she actually handed him some loose paper and a pen, and they spent the day with her explaining how to work on improving his spellwork, as well as how to learn new spells without fear of anything backfiring. He took notes like a good student, and made sure to ask questions when he didn’t understand. 

He knew that, should anything come up later, Peter could always get in touch with her, but for the most part he wanted to try and figure things out on his own. Having a teacher had helped, and while he knew he still had a long way to go, he felt a lot more confident in his ability to protect himself and others. 

They ended up staying for both lunch _and_ dinner, Stiles feeling spoiled because Satomi kept giving him sugary treats to help get his magic levels back up. When they finally left for the day, she told them it would be best to just do some theory learning the following day as well before moving back into healing. 

Stiles felt _tons_ better that night, even though he was still frozen. He had a heater now, and Derek didn’t complaint when Stiles shifted into him the moment the Werewolf got into bed. He just rolled his eyes, flicked Stiles in the forehead when he made a cheeky comment, and the two of them slept. 

Once Stiles’ magic reserves were back up into reasonable levels, as surmised by Satomi, they went back to training on the healing magic though they did so in the much warmer living area of Satomi’s cabin. Given they trusted her now, there was no need for Stiles to freeze in the clearing when healing magic wasn’t going to damage property.

They spent the next five days on improving his understanding of healing magic, allowing for longer training sessions now that they weren’t limited by daylight. Derek always drove them to Satomi’s cabin, so there was no concern of him being out in the dark woods, which meant they stuck around for dinner more often than not. 

Satomi never asked them about why they were so cagey, and why she was never invited to their cabin. She just took everything in stride, did what she’d been hired to do, and treated Stiles to sweets when he did well in the day. She was really the best teacher and Stiles was kind of sad that they only had four days with her left. 

Peter had rented the cabin for Stiles and Derek for an additional eight days, just so they could take a break and come back in their own time, but Satomi was only sticking around for four more days, leaving on the fifth to head back to New Mexico and her pack. She made it clear they were welcome to visit her any time they liked, and even gave Stiles her address and phone number in case he ever wanted to touch base, but didn’t ask for any of his details in return. 

She was perceptive that way, knowing he wouldn’t provide them to her. Not because he didn’t _want_ to, but well, safety and all that. 

When they arrived at the cabin the following day, down to three before she’d have to leave, Satomi made them all some snacks like a bonafide grandmother trying to overfeed her grandchildren, and then told them both they were heading back to the clearing. Apparently with the limited time she had left, and evidently knowing that Stiles valued protection over healing at this point, she wanted to try a few things with him so he could better counter an attack. 

Derek had been worried about that at first, but Satomi evidently picked up on it and reiterated that she would only be using magic, and nothing in the Werewolf spectrum. She just wanted to make sure Stiles knew how to dispel anything cast on him, or figure out how to detect when it was cast on someone else, like invisibility. 

Satomi had been _extremely_ impressed by how easily Stiles could turn himself invisible the first time he’d shown her. Apparently it was one of the harder spells, but Stiles figured he was so good at it because that was kind of all he wanted to be nowadays.

Invisible. 

“We shall start simple,” Satomi said, standing a few feet in front of Stiles. “Basic spells, just to be sure you can counter them or detect them. I won’t warn you what I’m about to do, but rest assured I won’t harm you.” 

“I know,” Stiles said with a small smile, readying himself. “Let’s do it.” 

Satomi nodded once, and then began casting various spells. Some of them Stiles could deflect easily, some he had a harder time even figuring out before countering them. His shield spell held up against pretty much everything she tossed at him, but he walked into hers more than once while attempting to counter another spell. 

When he turned invisible to escape something thrown his way, she merely redirected it and he called foul since her Werewolf nose allowed her easy access to his whereabouts. She could track him with her Witch magic too, but it was faster with her nose. 

“Never assume your enemy will only have one advantage,” she insisted while helping him to his feet. His hands were cold, since there was some snow on the ground and he’d just fallen into it. “I know it is not good form to ‘fight dirty,’ as they say, however you must bear in mind that not everyone will show the same restraint. When faced with something they want, people can be ruthless.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said softly, unconsciously rubbing at his chest where Derek had sliced into him. He stopped the second he realized what he was doing and cast a quick look at his friend. 

Thankfully, the Werewolf had grown bored of watching them, because he was scowling down at something on his phone, leaning back against a tree with one leg bent and his foot against the bark. He still wasn’t wearing winter clothes, but he at least had a leather jacket on overtop his grey T-shirt. Stiles secretly thought it made him look like a bad boy, and hoped the jacket stuck around. 

Derek was an attractive man, and Stiles had already made that known to him, so he felt no shame in staring every now and then. 

Though he was meant to be training right now, so he forced his gaze back to Satomi and nodded when she asked if he was ready to go again. 

It was actually a bit like a game, in some ways. Satomi would do something, and Stiles had to figure out what it was in a split second to counter it. As time passed, he found he was getting better and better at it, and honestly, he was starting to feel a little cocky about it. 

Until, of course, everything went wrong. Because this was Stiles, and something _always_ went wrong. 

Satomi shifted her stance slightly, staring at Stiles, and for a second nothing happened. Then, Stiles’ entire world twisted at a horrible angle, his vision crackled, and he felt like he was going to be sick. 

The second it happened, he stopped breathing, heart pounding in his chest, and mind unwillingly going back to a time where he felt pain in his shoulder, blood on his hands, and he was lying in a heap at the bottom of a flight of straights. 

_“Aw, baby. It’s all right, just a little dizzy spell. You’re gonna be okay.”_

His breathing came sharper, and it felt like he was going to vomit, and no. 

No, no, no.

He had to get out, he had to get away from her. He had to get away before Gerard and Jennifer caught up, before they managed to get him out, before he was _taken away_. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, and the world was spinning, and even when he clenched his eyes shut everything felt like it was still moving. 

“Paul! _Paul_!” 

Stiles jerked at the sharp slap against his face and his eyes snapped open. Derek was crouched right in front of him, eyes blood red and expression tight with concern. He had both hands on Stiles’ cheeks, right one smarting from the hit, and it was easy to tell he was two seconds away from ripping someone apart. 

Reaching up with shaking hands, Stiles gripped Derek’s wrists, holding him tightly in an attempt to keep himself grounded. His breathing was still erratic, heart thumping hard and fast in his chest, but he just stared at Derek and forced himself to remain in the present. 

He focussed on the feel of cold and wet seeping through the knees of his jeans from the snow beneath them. On the sound the wind made while it blew through the trees around them. On the warmth of the hands against his cool cheeks. He just kept his eyes locked on Derek’s until he managed to get himself back under control, until he’d calmed down. 

He was here. He was in the clearing, with Derek. With Satomi and Derek. He was okay, nobody else was there, nobody was coming to take him. 

“I’m okay,” he managed to get out, squeezing a bit tighter at Derek’s wrists. “I’m okay,” he promised. 

Derek’s eyes were still red, and they left his only to flick to the side. Stiles didn’t understand at first, until he followed his gaze and they landed on his right hand, still holding Derek’s wrist. 

His hand was fully black, shadows having disappeared up past the cuff of his hoodie. 

His blood ran cold. 

Tightening his grip on Derek’s wrists, Stiles shifted his head ever so slightly to look at Satomi. 

She was standing a few feet away, evidently having backed off the second Derek probably freaked out at Stiles’ reaction to the spell. Her eyes were locked on his hands, but they shot back up to his face when she noticed him looking. 

“Perhaps that is enough for one day,” she said, her voice deceptively calm. 

She knew. Stiles _knew_ that she knew. And Derek did, too. He was growling low in his chest, a deep rumble that vibrated the length of his entire body, making the hands still on Stiles’ cheek tremble ever so slightly. 

“I am going to take a walk while the sun is still up,” Satomi informed them calmly. “You are free to return to my cabin for your vehicle. I will see you back here in the morning.” 

With that, she inclined her head, and moved wide around them to head out of the clearing in a direction that was away from them, but also away from her own cabin. She made sure to move in a direction that made her clearly visible to Derek, as if accurately ascertaining that he was the one who needed to be reassured of her departure in this case. 

Derek’s entire frame was tense, and his eyes remained red long after Satomi had disappeared from view, Stiles hearing her shoes crunching against snow, like she was purposefully making noise to reassure them she was moving away. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, Derek’s eyes snapping back to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” 

Derek lightly slapped his cheek, a clear dismissal of his apology, because he had nothing to apologize for. When he pulled his hands away from Stiles’ face and started to stand, Stiles himself released his wrists and got unsteadily to his feet, his equilibrium still a little fucked from the spell. 

Normally Derek liked to wait to be sure Satomi was gone before he headed out, but it seemed he was willing to risk her being close in this case given they were heading back to her own cabin for the Camaro, anyway. He grabbed Stiles’ upper arm, grip perhaps a bit tighter than normal, and the two of them moved quickly through the trees and towards where the car was. 

Once they reached the cabin, Derek all but shoved Stiles into the passenger seat, looking around worriedly and inhaling deeply, as if scenting the air for signs of Satomi being close in an attempt to follow them. 

As soon as they got into the car, Derek sped out of there like he wanted to break the sound barrier, kicking up dirt and gravel. Snow had begun to fall during their trek back, a light dusting of it covering the windshield and forcing Derek to angrily flick on the wipers. 

He turned to Stiles and began tapping his pocket insistently. Stiles took that for the order it was and obediently pulled out his phone, hands still black with shadows. 

Moving to his very short contact list, he hit Peter’s name and put the phone to his ear. It didn’t even ring once. 

_“She knows.”_

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Stiles who said it. It was Peter’s answer to his call. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, still feeling a little out of sorts. He couldn’t believe he’d had a panic attack like that over a spell, but he supposed considering what had happened the _last_ time someone had cast that on him, it kind of made sense. “I’m sorry.” 

_“For what? It was unintentional,”_ Peter said dismissively.

“How did you know she found out?” 

_“She texted me.”_

Stiles found that to be interesting. Satomi had admitted to Peter that she knew what he was. He couldn’t decide if it was to give them all a false sense of security—that being, she knew who he was, and didn’t care, but was secretly plotting to get her pack out there to kidnap Stiles—or if she’d told Peter because she was the kind of person who always reported back. 

_“Isaac and Boyd are on the way.”_

“We’ll be gone before they get here,” Stiles insisted, Derek turning into the short path that led up to their cabin. “We’re grabbing our stuff and getting out.”

 _“No.”_ Peter’s harsh tone had even Derek turn to glance at the phone, but he quickly faced forward again to avoid crashing straight through the cabin, slamming on the brakes, the car skidding forward dangerously close to the porch in the snow. 

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Stiles demanded. 

_“If she’s planning anything, the first thing she’ll do is have people on the roads looking for you. She’ll anticipate your departure as quickly as possible. Isaac and Boyd are already on their way.”_

“It’ll take them _hours_ to get here!” Stiles argued. 

_“They’re flying. It leaves in half an hour. They’ll barely make the flight, but they’re already headed to the airport. It’s just over two hours, and once they land, they’re headed right for you. Stay right where you are.”_

Stiles glanced at Derek and he could see his hands clenching and unclenching around the steering wheel, like he was debating ignoring his uncle. When the Werewolf turned to look at him, Stiles didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t exactly well-versed in this kind of thing, but he also understood where Peter was coming from. If they stayed, it would be the complete _opposite_ of what anyone would expect him to do. Everyone would anticipate a hasty retreat home, like Peter said. 

But to stick around? To wait out the night with Boyd and Isaac on the way? That was dangerous, and risky, and totally _not_ what anyone would expect. 

Derek seemed to come to the same conclusion, because he was clenching his jaw so tightly, Stiles was sure he could hear his bones creaking. 

“Fine,” Stiles said quietly. “Fine, okay. We’ll stay. But if I get kidnapped or killed, I’m haunting you.” 

_“You won’t,”_ Peter said, with conviction. Stiles wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. _“I’ll check in with you in fifteen minutes. Stay inside.”_

Stiles grunted and hung up, turning back to Derek. It was clear neither of them liked this plan, but it was the best one they had. 

Despite knowing Satomi was much more powerful than him, Stiles still figured the safest thing to do was erect a perimeter spell. Even if she broke through it, at least they’d have an advanced warning given the dissolution of the spell would alert Stiles. 

“Come on,” Stiles said. “I want to do a perimeter spell.” 

Derek climbed out before Stiles did, rounding the car and wrenching the door open so hard, Stiles thought he might take it clear off the car. When they were both out of the vehicle, Derek kept his head tilted upwards, inhaling deeply, and one hand on Stiles’ upper arm while they walked a wide circle around their cabin and the Camaro. Stiles was sure he’d done it properly, and he could see the air shimmering ever so slightly, but he wasn’t confident it would keep someone like Satomi out. 

Peter called halfway through the perimeter spell, given fifteen minutes had passed, and said he’d call back in another fifteen. Stiles figured it was his way of ensuring they were all right until backup arrived. 

Before heading inside, Derek moved them back to the Camaro and wrenched open the trunk. He pulled out a large tarp which he used to cover the car with, being sure it was fully concealed to make it harder for people to just look for the car to find them, considering Satomi knew what it looked like. The fact that it was snowing would held cover the tarp with a light dusting of snow, hopefully giving the illusion of it having been there for a while. 

When they got inside, Derek immediately did a sweep with Stiles following along as usual. Once it was deemed safe, Derek sat Stiles down on the couch, lit a fire for him, and then took up residence at the window by the front door, leaning just out of sight and watching the road. 

Stiles rubbed his hands together, moving to sit on the floor in front of the fire since his jeans were still wet from his earlier fall and the trek through the woods, and his hands were frozen. When he held them out closer to the fire, they were still black. He pulled up one sleeve to see how far up the tendrils were going and couldn’t get it up high enough. He ended up pulling the hoodie off, just to check, but it went up even past his shoulders. 

Pulling his phone out, he opened the camera and turned the frame so it was aimed at him, and saw shadows slowly creeping up his neck. That was doing nothing for how terrified he was feeling, because he had no _idea_ what the tendrils were. He’d look it up, but he didn’t even know what kind of magic to narrow it down to, and anything he searched that raised red flags would likely get picked up by the government. 

“Derek,” Stiles said, turning to him. 

Derek grunted to show he was listening, but didn’t take his eyes away from the window. 

“Derek,” Stiles said again, more emphatically. 

This time, he did turn, and he paused when he looked at Stiles, obviously clearly able to see the fully black arms and the tendrils of black creeping up his neck. 

On a whim, Stiles pulled his collar away from himself to stare down his shirt, and winced. He instead lifted the bottom of it, showing the black shadows moving across his chest and down towards his stomach. 

Derek was standing impossibly still, eyes locked on Stiles, and breathing a little too loud and fast to be normal. It was obvious neither of them knew what this meant, or what to do about it. 

Before Stiles could panic too badly, his phone rang again. He snatched it up, barely checking for Peter’s name, and put it to his ear. 

“I need someone to look something up for me,” he said. 

_“What?”_ Stiles didn’t know if Peter was asking what, specifically, he needed looked up or if he was asking him to repeat himself. 

He chose to believe it was the former. 

“You know the black shadows? The ones that crawl up my arms from my hands when I get scared or nervous or whatever?” Stiles stared down at his black hand, and felt a little sick when he thought he could see through it. It was still black, but it looked almost transparent, and that probably wasn’t good. “My arms are black, and they’re creeping up my neck and down my chest. I’m a little—concerned.” 

Concerned was an understatement, but he was hoping to try and keep Derek calm. Nevermind the Werewolf could probably smell the terror rolling off him in waves, but he was doing his best! 

_“I’ll call you b—”_

“In fifteen, yeah.” Stiles hung up and held the phone tightly in one hand, staring down at the other. 

It seemed to take an effort, but Derek left the front area and moved to crouch in front of Stiles, reaching out to grip the hand that was slowly but surely disappearing. Stiles could barely feel it, and based on the stressed look on Derek’s face, he could barely feel Stiles’ hand. 

They stayed like that for the fifteen minutes it took Peter to call them back. He didn’t have an answer yet, but the pack and some members of the Order were looking into it across the country. He insisted it was probably nothing to be worried about, but even Stiles could hear the lie over the phone. 

Magic wasn’t all puppies and rainbows. Some of it was dark, was bad. Some of it could consume and kill people. While Stiles liked to think his body wasn’t turning on him and was actually attempting to keep him safe, he had no idea what the shadows were, and the more worried and stressed he got, the more of his body started turning black and that was doing _nothing_ to help lower his stress levels. 

He knew when the shadows had crept up onto his face, because Derek’s hand clenched even tighter and he was staring at him exceptionally hard. Stiles just closed his eyes and tried to breathe, still holding Derek’s hand tightly in one of his, and the phone in the other. 

The fifteen minutes weren’t up yet, but Peter called back anyway. Stiles answered it quickly, eyes still closed and bringing the phone to his ear. 

“So?” 

_“It’s Mage magic,”_ Peter informed him. _“Very old magic, not well known, and scarcely used.”_

“Perfect,” Stiles forced out. “Awesome. So we know nothing about it.” 

_“One person might, we’re waiting to hear back.”_ Peter paused. _“It’s a contact of Satomi’s.”_

“You told her?!” Stiles demanded. 

_“She saw your hands, she already knew. She contacted me two minutes ago to ask if you were all right. I said you were fine, and she asked if your hands had returned to normal. When I didn’t answer, she said she knew a Mage who was familiar with old magic and would touch base once she heard back.”_

Stiles felt like hearing all that was stressing him out more and a sharp breath left him when he suddenly couldn’t feel Derek’s hand anymore. His eyes snapped open and he looked down, Derek doing the same thing. Stiles’ hand was still black, but it was completely transparent. Like a shadow. 

“Well you better get an answer soon before I can’t even pick up the phone,” Stiles insisted, stressing out even more. 

_“Stay calm.”_

“You stay calm while your body disappears into a black hole!” Stiles shouted. 

He hung up the phone and only avoided hurling it away because it slid from his grip, falling right through his hand. Another sharp exhale left him and Derek grabbed his face in both hands, grip tight and eyes bleeding red. Stiles could see how stressed he was, and that was doing nothing for his own nerves.

He tried to reach up and grab at Derek, but his hands passed right through him. 

“Fuck, _fuck_!” Stiles clenched his hands into fists and held them against his own chest, closing his eyes and trying to breathe. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Everything is fine.” 

Except it wasn’t okay, and nothing was fine. His breathing came sharp and fast, and he was already struggling to feel Derek’s tight grip on his face. What happened when his entire body went black and transparent? This wasn’t the same thing as turning invisible, he was still _there_ when he was invisible. He could touch things, and move things, and people could walk into him. This was different. This was like-like turning into a _ghost_. 

He’d never heard of this before. He may have only read two magic user types so far, but he’d payed attention in school. And if this was old Mage magic, it had obviously been lost for a reason. Because maybe people who’d used it disappeared and never came back. 

“Derek,” Stiles forced out. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. 

He wanted Derek to make it stop, to make it better, to force the shadows back like he had so many times before. Because it was _Derek_ , and he was safety and comfort, and his friend, and Stiles trusted him. 

Derek’s hands shifted on his face, and then the Werewolf wrapped his arms around Stiles and pulled him into a tight, fierce hug. He buried his face in Stiles’ neck, and Stiles could feel how harsh and fast his breathing was. Derek was scared, which was doing nothing for how Stiles felt. 

Stiles tried to hug him back, but his hands and arms just moved right through his frame. Shit. _Shit_. 

He had to calm down. If he could just _calm down_ —

The phone rang. 

“I can’t get that,” Stiles said, voice higher with his hysteria. “Derek, I can’t get that!” 

Derek was still hugging him tightly with one arm around his shoulders, but he reached out with his other hand and picked up the phone, answering the call and putting it on speaker. 

_“Stiles, you’re okay,”_ Peter said, and the calm in his voice was doing _wonders_ for Stiles’ panic. _“You’re going to be okay. This isn’t anything dangerous, it’s an automatic reaction to a threat. It is very old Mage magic that was used in the past to escape threats. You’re scared and you’re trying to escape a threat. If you turn fully shadowed, you will still be **fine**.”_

“What is it?” Stiles demanded. “What’s happening?” 

_“You’re turning into a shadow.”_

“Yeah, I got that part,” Stiles snapped. “I mean what’s _happening_?” 

_“No, Stiles,”_ Peter said, still sounding calm. _“You’re literally turning into a shadow. You can dissolve your entire body and latch yourself onto another shadow in the vicinity to stay hidden. You’re not going to disappear, you’re not going to be hurt, you’re just going to be hidden. You can come back from it, it’s not dangerous.”_

Stiles was still breathing hard against Derek’s skin at the words, but he could feel the Werewolf holding him slowly begin to relax. That, coupled with Peter’s calm words had some of the anxiety gnawing at his chest slowly recede by about one percent. 

“Oh,” he said, because he didn’t know what else _to_ say. “Oh.” 

_“You’re okay, Stiles. Just breathe and try to calm down, and it will recede on its own until you can learn to master it.”_

“Right. Calm. I can calm. I’m so good at calm,” Stiles blurted out. 

_“I’ll call you back in fifteen.”_

“Sure. Cool. Yeah. Awesome.” 

Derek hung up the phone and dropped it back by Stiles’ leg. The Werewolf slowly pulled back, but kept a tight grip on Stiles’ shoulder. He inspected Stiles’ face for a long moment, then turned his head and reached out with his other hand. Stiles saw him snatch _Treasure Island_ off the coffee table and he manhandled Stiles around until Derek was leaning back against the couch with Stiles pressed into his side. 

Without a word, he opened the book to the last page Stiles had marked and held it up where they could both see it. Stiles just stared at the book like he didn’t understand, because was Derek insane? Stiles was still freaking the fuck out, and he wanted him to _read_? 

The hard whap in the forehead he got with the open book proved that, yes, he _did_ want him to read. He probably wanted him to calm down, and figured reading would help keep them _both_ calm. Derek was less tense, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t still freaking out, if the tight grip he still had on Stiles’ shoulder was any indication. 

Letting out a slow breath, Stiles closed his eyes, heart still pounding in his chest, then opened them and began to read aloud. He figured it would keep them both calm if he forced them both to pay attention, since Derek was the one turning pages. 

They stayed like that until Peter’s next check-in, and Stiles automatically reached for the phone without thinking. When his hand actually curled around it, he let out a harsh laugh, exhaled sharply once, then answered the call. 

Even though he was clearly calming down, Stiles and Derek both stayed leaning against the couch with Stiles reading aloud until he could see the tendrils slowly moving back down his arms. He didn’t know how long it took, only that his hands were still black when his perimeter spell activated and the tendrils shot back up almost to his elbows.

“Someone’s here,” Stiles said, jerking to his feet. Derek tossed the book aside and did the same, grabbing Stiles’ arm and tugging him closer while stalking to the window. Stiles couldn’t peek out from where Derek was holding him, but the way he instantly relaxed suggested it was their backup. 

It made sense, after all. The perimeter spell hadn’t been broken, it had just been crossed. It could only be crossed by friendlies, which meant the people approaching had to be on their side. 

Derek didn’t move from the window for a long while, not until even Stiles could hear the footsteps hurrying up the porch steps. There was one rap at the door, then Derek shifted them both around so he could unlock it and pull it open. 

Isaac came in first, snow in his hair and eyes scanning the cabin urgently. Boyd followed more calmly, shutting the door and locking it behind himself while brushing snow off his coat. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, eying Stiles’ hands. “Peter filled us in on our way here from the airport.” 

Stiles held up one hand, staring at it. The black shadows were still up by his elbows from the jump scare, but they were slowly starting to recede once more. 

“I’ll be okay,” he said, dropping his hand. “Sorry you had to come.” 

“You’re pack, of course we’d come,” Isaac insisted, having done a quick sweep of the cabin. Stiles figured he was just feeling antsy given why they’d come. “Anyone approach the place?” 

“No one except you two,” Stiles confirmed. 

“Peter said Satomi was the one who found out what was going on with your hands,” Boyd said, still eying them. “Sounds a little weird for someone with malicious intent.” 

Derek let out a small growl, jerking Stiles slightly by the arm. Boyd cast a glance at him, but didn’t seem to catch what he was saying. 

As usual, Stiles did. 

“Could also be a trick to get us to trust her,” Stiles argued. 

Boyd conceded his point with a slight tilt of his head, then motioned the kitchen, saying he’d get started on dinner. Considering he was usually in the kitchen at work, and Derek didn’t look ready to leave Stiles’ side yet, it made sense in the grand scheme of things. 

Now that the panic had receded and he wasn’t being held by a Werewolf, Stiles felt like he was getting cold again so he went to grab his hoodie to pull it back on, Derek hovering almost obsessively close. 

When Stiles sat down on the couch, staring at his hands, Derek fell down beside him, pressing Stiles firmly against the side of the couch. Isaac moved to join them, sitting on the other chair available and eying them like he didn’t understand something. 

Stiles ignored his look and just motioned _Treasure Island_ once more. When Derek handed it over, Stiles had to find the page once more and paused before continuing. 

“Do you guys mind if I read aloud?” 

Boyd turned to give him a weird look from the kitchen and Isaac’s gaze shunted to the side to look at Derek, but they both confirmed it was fine, so Stiles went back to reading from where he’d left off before they showed up. 

His hands went back to normal before Peter’s next check-in. 

* * *

The plan was for them all to head out first thing in the morning, at five am. Isaac and Boyd literally had nothing with them, so they each borrowed a set of clothes from Derek and slept in their shorts in the neighbouring room. Neither of them said anything when Stiles and Derek disappeared into the other room with one bed clearly not being used despite being present. 

Stiles figured it was a wolf thing, anyway. After all, Stiles and Derek slept in the same bed back at the loft and no one had batted an eye, so there was nothing weird about this, in his mind. Besides, Derek kept him toasty warm at night now.

Though he _was_ squeezing Stiles a little _too_ hard today. Stiles tried not to grumble about it, he knew Derek was just freaking out and stressed about the day’s events. 

When they woke up a little after four to head out, Stiles was brushing his teeth when a text message came in. He checked it, and frowned when he just saw a few print-screens of a back and forth conversation between Peter and Satomi. 

**[Satomi Ito]**  
Is he well today?

 **[Peter]**  
Back to normal  
**[Peter]**  
Your assistance was appreciated  
**[Peter]**  
He’ll be heading home today

 **[Satomi Ito]**  
I still have much to teach him  
**[Satomi Ito]**  
I understand the hesitance  
**[Satomi Ito]**  
I mean him no harm  
**[Satomi Ito]**  
I have told no one  
**[Satomi Ito]**  
His mother saved my life  
**[Satomi Ito]**  
As she did many others 

**[Peter]**  
You were infected 

**[Satomi Ito]**  
Yes  
**[Satomi Ito]**  
After everything happened, none of us had the opportunity to thank her  
**[Satomi Ito]**  
I would like the chance to repay my debt by helping her son

 **[Peter]**  
I’ll pass the message along

 **[Satomi Ito]**  
Please know I will not change my mind were he to leave  
**[Satomi Ito]**  
I will tell no one of him  
**[Satomi Ito]**  
He deserves to live a normal life 

**[Peter]**  
I’ll be in touch 

Stiles stared down at the messages, toothbrush still in one hand and foam in his mouth. It took a few moments before Peter sent him a text with only three question marks, clearly asking him what he wanted to do. 

Run. Run and never stop. Because his life was shit. 

But then—there were three Werewolves with him. And it hadn’t escaped his notice that Satomi had spent the entire time they were together never prying, and always respecting boundaries. The first day, when she saw how unhappy and worried both he and Derek were, she’d kept her distance and offered to leave if they weren’t comfortable. 

When Stiles was getting magic deficiency, she’d brought them back to her cabin, knowing that she was inviting another Alpha and a Witch into her space, and offered them food. She’d taught Stiles indoors with theory until he was well enough to start practice again. 

And even yesterday, when he’d had his panic attack, she’d kept her distance, knowing Derek would snap him out of it and suspecting her presence wouldn’t be welcome. She’d just stood back and shouted his fake-name because she knew Derek couldn’t. And as soon as she’d recognized what he was, _who_ he was, she’d very calmly told them they could go and had walked away in a direction far from where they needed to be. 

She hadn’t once given any signs that she was a threat, and seemed determined to just ensure Stiles was properly trained before she sent him home. Not once had she ever expected anything back, and while Stiles knew she was being paid by Peter, she never looked at Stiles in a way that suggested he owed her for anything. She was literally just doing a job. 

Stiles jumped when he heard a soft knock on the open doorframe, turning with the toothbrush still raised in one hand, phone in the other, and his mouth full of foam. Derek cocked an eyebrow, looking at his face, then the toothbrush, then the phone, then his face once more. 

Without a word, Stiles handed over his phone and finished brushing his teeth, spitting out foam and rinsing his mouth before turning the tap off. He used the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe his mouth off before turning back to Derek, who was frowning down at the phone. When he looked up at Stiles, his expression was very clear. 

“What do you want to do?” it said. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted. “I don’t want to spend my life thinking every person I meet is out to get me, though.” 

Derek’s expression suggested he could understand that sentiment. He handed the phone back, and motioned Stiles once in a sweeping motion, clearly saying it was up to him. 

Stiles tapped the phone against his leg in a nervous way, thinking on it. He really _had_ liked his time with Satomi. She was a great teacher, and he’d expected to have at least two more days with her. Sure, it wasn’t a lot, but it was _enough_. 

They stood there for a long while, until Boyd wandered over with frown on his face, looking between the two of them. 

“Everything okay? We gotta go.”

Stiles kept his gaze on Derek, the Werewolf still looking at him as if it was his choice. He knew it was probably _killing_ him. Derek wanted him safe, wanted him back at the loft where he could keep him hidden away from everyone and everything. But he was letting Stiles make this decision on his own, and it was obvious that even _he_ wasn’t entirely sure Satomi was a threat. If Derek truly thought this was a bad idea, he would’ve been pointing at the door in a clear demand for them to leave. 

Tucking his phone back into his pocket, Stiles let out a slow breath and stared at his hands. There was nothing there, and he flipped them over before clenching them into fists. 

“I want to go see her,” Stiles said. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Isaac demanded, appearing out of nowhere. His hair was a dishevelled mass of curls from his fitful sleep, and he looked exhausted, but still alert. “You want to go see the crazy powerful Alpha Werewolf Witch who knows you’re the Spark? Are you crazy?!”

Derek shoved Isaac back with a scowl, the other Werewolf sputtering incredulously. Boyd just stared in silence for a long while before sighing and glancing at Derek, then back at Stiles. 

“Isaac and I will hang back, let the two of you approach alone. If she has company, well, we’ll have to hope we can hold them off with the element of surprise.” 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, fingers tapping at his phone through his pants. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake, but something in his gut insisted Satomi wasn’t going to hurt him. If she wanted to, she could’ve done it by now. 

Boyd had to unpack the food since they’d been planning on heading out and he got to work making them all breakfast. Stiles ate it without really tasting it, and they hung out watching TV until closer to eight, which was when he and Derek usually went to meet Satomi in the clearing. 

Isaac and Boyd followed at a distance, Derek holding Stiles’ wrist tight enough for it to actually hurt, but he didn’t say anything. He knew Derek was just stressing out, and having him close was comforting so Stiles tolerated the mild discomfort. 

When they moved through the trees and into the clearing, the light filtering down was grey and dull, the air cold, everything almost blinding white from all the snow on the ground. Satomi was already waiting, hands folded together in front of herself. She allowed the smallest of smiles to cross her lips at the sight of the two of them, Isaac and Boyd sticking back in the trees to avoid being seen. 

“Hello,” Satomi said, making no move to approach.

Derek made Stiles stop a good twenty feet away. 

“Hi,” he said in response. 

Satomi’s eyes went down Stiles and back up him, as if inspecting him. It wasn’t the same syrupy look he was used to getting from people who knew what he was. This one was more curious as opposed to hungry. Stiles liked the distinct difference. 

“You grew up very well,” she said. “I am happy to know you survived to adulthood in freedom.” 

“I’m only eighteen,” he countered. 

“Longer than anyone anticipated after the death of your mother,” she admitted quietly. “I am sorry for your loss.” Her eyes shifted to Derek. “You must be a Gevaudan.” 

He just scowled at her, as if unhappy that she knew that. To be fair, Stiles was fairly certain most people knew the history, he’d just been sheltered from it, so he wasn’t surprised to learn she was aware of who Stiles was, and the oath that had been sworn. 

“I am sorry for yesterday,” Satomi said honestly. “I wasn’t aware you had history with that spell or I wouldn’t have used it. I imagine it has been used on you before?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said quietly. “Hunters came. One of them was a Witch. They almost... well, it doesn’t matter.” 

“I’m afraid it does,” she said softly. “You see, your reaction to that spell makes you vulnerable. You will have to find a way to move past what happened to be able to counter it, otherwise it will always be something they can use against you.” 

Stiles supposed that made sense, but he trusted Satomi just a little less than he had yesterday. He wasn’t willing to take a chance that she might actually incapacitate him today. So far she seemed genuine in everything she was saying, but still. 

“You told Peter you owed my mother,” he said. “What did you mean?” 

Satomi was silent for a long moment, watching him, as if calculating. He wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t want to share why she owed his mother, or if it was because she was trying to determine how he would fare hearing about it. 

“Do you know how it was discovered that your kind had one last survivor?” she eventually asked. 

Stiles shrugged one shoulder. “Someone told me that my mom had the choice between staying hidden and allowing millions to die, or exposing herself to save them.” 

Satomi inclined her head. “It is not spoken about. Much like many things in history people would rather be forgotten, it is something that has been pushed to the side in hopes no one would remember. But those of us who survived it remember. It is not something we could easily forget.” 

Stiles waited, knowing she would continue unprompted. He was getting cold standing still like he was and leaned further into Derek. He immediately released his wrist to wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in tighter. It was horribly unfair that Derek was so fucking warm while they stood surrounded by snow. He was lucky Stiles liked him so much or he’d have hated him. 

Satomi waited to be sure he was okay, and then continued. “Years before you were even a thought, back when your mother herself had to remain hidden and be careful with who she trusted, there was an epidemic.” Satomi paused, as it unhappy with the word, and corrected herself. “There was a war against Supernaturals. Most notably, those of the Were kind. Hunters had begun a widespread plan to attempt to wipe out the Were communities across the world, starting with the largest and most densely populated areas. They created Wolfsbane bombs with the intention of infecting as many Weres as they could.” 

“Wolfsbane is harmful to humans, too,” Stiles countered. Because he knew that to be a fact. He’d learned that in school during the Werewolf Support week in Maryland. It was a week where people were reminded that Werewolves were not the enemy, and that Hunters were trying their best to make them out to be the villain. One of the common things that came up was the methods with which Hunters often killed Werewolves, that being with wolfsbane. But something few people knew was that wolfsbane was actually something that could cause harm and even death to humans, as well. 

Hunters liked to make people believe they could keep it in their pocket and use it against a rabid Were, but failed to warn the public of the dangers it posed to humans. Because killing a Werewolf was more important than protecting a human, apparently. 

“It is,” Satomi confirmed. “But there are different strains, and while the wolfsbane being released _was_ harmful to humans, it only caused sickness. Vomiting, shortness of breath, loss of appetite and the like. But for Weres as a whole, it was fatal. Once the infection hit, the mortality rate was at one-hundred.” 

Stiles remembered the texts between Peter and Satomi. “You were infected.” 

“I was the first in my pack,” she acknowledged. “I did not have long. I did what I could with my own magic, but it wasn’t enough. I knew I wouldn’t survive, so I instead used it to protect my pack from infection instead. I did not want them to lose their lives when so many of them were so young.” 

“That’s very noble of you,” Stiles said honestly. 

“I am an Alpha. We protect those important to us.” Her eyes flicked to Derek then before looking back at Stiles. “I survived only because your mother almost died protecting us. She was powerful, as are all Sparks. You start small, but once you grow into your magic, it is almost unstoppable. And the later the generation, the more powerful you are. Because as time passes, and Sparks reproduce, there are so many additions to the magic. Marrying other Supernatural beings and having children only increases the power already contained within. Your mother risked her life, her freedom, to nullify the effects of the Hunter’s wolfsbane bombs. She saved countless lives that day almost at the cost of her own.” 

“She could do that, but not save herself in the end?” Stiles asked, almost scoffing. For an all-powerful being, the fact that she was so easily overrun by a group who wanted her seemed almost laughable. 

Satomi didn’t appreciate his tone, if her hard expression was anything to go by. “Why did we stop your practice last week?” 

“Because I had magic deficiency,” Stiles replied immediately, then paused and thought about it. 

“Magic is like a battery,” Satomi explained, holding both hands up, index fingers pointed to the sky and keeping them a fair distance from one another. “As you use the magic, it depletes.” She brought the fingers closer together, denoting the draining of a battery. “As you rest, and eat, and avoid using your magic, it begins to recharge.” She started separating her fingers again. “Your mother used so much magic she depleted every drop of it that she had. It would’ve taken her years to recharge a spell of that magnitude, and I believe she may have been able to before anyone came for her if not for one thing.” 

“What’s that?” Stiles asked, even though the twisting sensation in his gut made him feel like he knew _exactly_ what she was about to say. 

“Her body was still healing, still trying to replenish all the magic it had lost. But it had to stop doing that for a period, because it had to focus on something else.” 

Stiles’ stomach hit his feet. “She got pregnant.” 

“Magic requires sustenance the same as everything else. But while pregnant, the body had to choose between the magic and the child. It chose the child. It couldn’t work at recharging her magic until after you were born.” 

Stiles nodded slowly, licking his lips and letting out a small, bitter laugh. “Someone else I killed, then. Thanks.” 

Derek’s grip tightened around his shoulders, and Satomi frowned at him. 

“What happened to your mother wasn’t your fault. The Hunters forced her hand, and she exposed herself to protect those who needed it. She was drained, and had a child, and before her magic could fully replenish, people came for her. I fail to see where in all of that you are to blame.” 

“You said yourself she would’ve been back to full power if not for me.”

“I said she _may_ have,” Satomi insisted. “Not that she _would_ have. If anyone is to blame for your mother, it is the Hunters, but it is not in my nature to point fingers. She made a choice to save millions, and it cost her her life. For that, I am truly sorry.” 

Stiles’ jaw worked at her words, but he avoided looking at her. He was getting tired of hearing about all the people who’d died because of him. He felt like he needed a notebook to list them all in, so he could spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to the families of all the people his existence had destroyed. 

“I owe your mother a debt,” Satomi said, very quietly. “I know of the Order, which has pledged to protect you to the death, however I cannot join something of that nature without endangering my pack, I am sorry. But I acknowledge the debt, and I am willing to help you learn whatever I can, for as long as you will let me. We only have two full days remaining, three if I train you in the morning on the day I am slated to depart. I would very much like the opportunity to finish what I had planned, if you’ll let me.” 

Stiles glanced at Derek, who was staring right back. The Werewolf seemed calm, and unconcerned. And Satomi’s words, while painful, had sounded sincere. She honestly wanted to help him, and this was the only way she could without endangering her pack. 

Letting out a small breath, Stiles pulled away from Derek. He actually let him, which was almost enough to make him worry about him, but it was clear Satomi honestly meant him no harm. So he obediently moved forward, closing the distance, and Satomi smiled, folding her hands together in front of herself again. 

“Thank you. As I said to Peter, I will not speak of this once we part ways, but I will remain available should you ever require anything. Peter has my number, as do you, so it should be fairly easy to keep in touch. Sound good to you, Paul?”

Stiles just nodded once, let out another slow breath, and said, “It’s Stiles.” 

Satomi smiled again. “Hello Stiles. I would imagine Peter isn’t really your uncle.” 

“No. But he is his.” He nodded towards Derek. “That’s Derek.” 

She inclined her head at him in greeting. Derek just crossed his arms over his chest. Satomi didn’t seem offended, she just took that for whatever it was and faced Stiles again. She’d already referenced him being a Gevaudan so she knew what that meant, and probably didn’t take offense to Derek’s lack of trust. 

“To avoid any further mishaps, perhaps we can proceed with spells you would feel comfortable repelling. I can warn you in advance this time, to ensure there are no repeats of yesterday.” 

“Sure,” Stiles said, shifting his stance a little and seeing Derek move out of the corner of his eye. He stayed closer than he had the day before, but he looked relaxed, eyes on Stiles, like he wanted to make sure he was okay. 

“Perhaps, before we begin, you could let your friends know they’re welcome to watch from closer in the clearing. After all, it’s rude to lurk.” 

Well. It was a good thing she was truly on their side, otherwise the day could’ve ended very badly. 

* * *

The last three days with Satomi went without incident. She came alone to the clearing, just as she had since the beginning, and she did as she said she would. She trained him, she gave him more instructions on keeping up on his own, and she also gave him some tips and tricks on various other magics that she was aware of just as a starting point for him. 

The last day they were together, Stiles asked if the two of them could have a private conversation. He knew Derek would never let him out of his sight, but he needed to have this conversation without him around so he ended up almost begging Derek to let him go off with Satomi and Boyd. He didn’t like it, but after some compromising, they split up in a way where Derek was left in the clearing, and Isaac was halfway between the clearing and Satomi’s cabin. It meant that if anything happened at the cabin, Isaac would hear and could relay it to Derek. 

Isaac would be close enough to make it there quickly, and Derek would know something was wrong. Plus, Stiles would still have Boyd right there, and while he wasn’t a Hale, Stiles knew Derek trusted Boyd more than almost everyone else in the pack. He clearly wasn’t happy, but he allowed it, and Stiles promised he’d be quick. 

And he _was_ quick. Because the second they arrived at the cabin, Satomi asked if he was there to discuss Derek’s curse. He hadn’t been aware she knew, but she confirmed she’d known since the day they’d met, because the magic was strong around him, and it hadn’t escaped her notice that his only means of communicating with Stiles was through body language and manhandling. 

She was very apologetic when she confirmed there was nothing that could be done. Stiles explained the gist of the curse to her, and when he told her the conditions to break it—which Boyd had been shocked to hear, since evidently he hadn’t known—she’d confirmed that it wasn’t something she could break. 

Derek had to speak words he truly meant, and there was no way around it. Stiles had felt sick, realizing the only way to break the curse was for Kate to magically grow a heart—unlikely—or for Derek to truly, honestly break to such a degree that he loved Kate and meant it when he said it. 

He asked if the curse would break if Kate died, and Satomi said she honestly wasn’t sure, which meant it was entirely possible Derek would be stuck like this until the day he died. And Stiles _wasn’t_ okay with that. 

“I’m going to find a way to help him,” Stiles insisted. “I’m going to break it somehow.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Satomi said with a hint of a smile. “Though perhaps not in the way you think.” 

Stiles didn’t understand that statement, but she only reaffirmed that Derek had to say the words and mean it for the curse to break. Hearing it repeated only soured his mood further, and he decided he’d stressed Derek out enough. 

He thanked her profusely for her help, and she reiterated that she wouldn’t tell anyone who he was. She gave him some tea for the road, which was meant to help with magic deficiency, and then he and Boyd wished her a safe trip home before leaving.

She’d already said goodbye to Derek, but she asked for Stiles to pass along her well wishes, and he promised he would. The two of them reached Isaac relatively quickly, and Derek met them halfway once it became clear he was allowed to be within earshot again. 

He didn’t ask, but he didn’t have to. Stiles was sure the look on his face was answer enough, and it wasn’t like Derek was stupid. He’d obviously figured out what Stiles was asking, and based on the look on his face, he hadn’t gotten his hopes up. He just looked a little pleased, like Stiles caring about him meant a lot. 

They went back to the cabin together, and while they still had time left since Peter had rented it for a few extra days for them, Derek made it clear he wanted to head back sooner rather than later. Isaac and Boyd were all for it, given they didn’t have anything with them and had been wearing the same two sets of clothes—their own upon arrival, and their extra sets from Derek—for days now. The washer/dryer set had gotten a lot of love the past few days. 

Boyd made dinner while Derek read, and Isaac and Stiles watched TV. They hit the hay early after dinner, Stiles foregoing a shower since he’d rather have it back at the loft when they got home. Isaac and Boyd would be driving back with them, since they’d only gotten flights _out_ , and nothing for the way back. It would be weird having them in the car with them, as it had been having them in the cabin the past few days, but Stiles saw it as an opportunity to try and get them to be less weird around Derek. 

For the most part, Boyd was very good at keeping the weird to a minimum, but Isaac still acted like he had no idea how to talk to Derek. He’d ask him a question offhand, then immediately take it back, sputter incomprehensibly, and then mutter “nevermind” before scuttling away. Every time he did it, Derek’s expression tightened just that little bit further, and Stiles _hated_ it. But once they were trapped in a car together, Isaac wouldn’t have anywhere to scuttle off to. 

Morning came quickly, Stiles groaning at the sound of the alarm blaring, and just buried himself further into Derek’s chest, the Werewolf warm and comfortable in the freezing cabin. One thing he was looking forward to with the loft was that it _had_ to be warmer than this damn place. Not that cuddling with Derek was a hardship, but he was sure Derek would prefer being able to sleep without someone leeching all the heat from his body. 

They packed away the last of their things in the morning, having done a majority of it the night before, and were on the road by five-twenty in the morning. Derek drove them through town so they could grab a bite to eat at a fast food joint, going through the drive-thru so they could get going faster, and then they were on their way home. 

It was strange for Stiles to realize he was going _back_ somewhere. He’d never had a place he’d left and returned to before. Not that he remembered, anyway, since he knew his childhood home was the first place he’d ever returned to in his life. This was different though, because he’d been at the loft for months, had left for one, and was now heading back there. It was like having a real home, and it felt... weird. 

And nice. 

But also weird. 

When Derek flicked him after a few hours of silence, Isaac snoring softly in the back and Boyd staring out the window, Stiles turned to him and saw Derek casting him quick looks, eyes returning to the road since there was a fair amount of morning traffic on the highway. He raised an eyebrow the next time he looked over and Stiles realized he was wondering why he was so quiet. 

To be fair, Stiles was hard to shut up, so he could understand the concern. 

“Just thinking,” he admitted with a shrug, stretching loudly and wincing when a few joints popped. 

Derek’s next look clearly said, “About?” 

“Just—the loft. I’ve never had a real home before. It’s weird, realizing I’m going back to a place I was already living at. I’ve never had that before. It’s nice.” 

The small smile that earned him was endearing, and Stiles shoved at Derek lightly, rolling his eyes. “Shut up,” he muttered. 

That just made Derek’s smile widen. 

“You’re such a dick,” he insisted, shoving him again, staring out the window. He frowned when they passed a sign, then turned back to Derek. “Hey, has Halloween passed yet? What day is it?” 

Derek just shrugged, likely not having kept track same as Stiles. Just when Stiles went to pull his phone out to check, Boyd answered for him. 

“October twenty-ninth.” 

“So Halloween is the day after tomorrow.” Stiles turned to look at Boyd, who nodded in confirmation. “I’ve never celebrated Halloween. Always looked kinda fun.” He glanced at Derek. “Can we do something? Doesn’t have to be big. Just like, costumes and scary movies and candy and stuff?” 

“Peter usually throws a big bash at the house,” Boyd said before Derek could reply. “Pack only. Well, pack and extended pack, I guess. Probably the safest place you could be on Halloween night.” 

Stiles watched Derek, eyebrows raised and hopeful. For a long while, Derek said nothing. He just kept shifting his gaze to the side to see if Stiles was still staring at him. After a few minutes, he finally sighed, looked to the sky for patience, and tapped his fingers once on the steering wheel. 

“Yes!” Stiles thrust both hands in the air. “Oh, oh,” he flapped one hand at Derek. “Wanna be the big bad wolf to my little red riding hood?” He winked and got an annoyed look for that. It was look number one, it’d been a while since it’d made an appearance. 

Stiles just laughed and shoved at his shoulder. “Well, what do _you_ have in mind, then?” 

Derek tilted his head slightly in thought, and when he turned to Stiles, he morphed into his Beta shift and snapped his teeth at him. Stiles gave him an unimpressed look. 

“Really? You’re so boring, you might as well go as yourself.” 

Derek’s grin said he was in full agreement and that he was glad Stiles had suggested it. Stiles smacked him hard enough to hurt his own hand. 

“Fuck you, no. You are dressing up if I have to knock you out and force the costume on you!” Stiles slouched in his seat, kicking his feet up on the dash. Derek eyed him briefly, but didn’t say anything. It was always hit or miss with whether or not Derek would let him sully the sanctity of his dash with his feet. Apparently today was a good day to do it. 

Stiles brainstormed costumes aloud for a few minutes, Boyd piping in every now and then. Apparently Boyd and Erica were doing the whole couples thing and were going as Jack Skellington and Sally from _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. Stiles thought that was amazing, because that movie was awesome. 

Isaac woke up at some point and insisted Derek should go as a giant dick. Stiles shot back that he’d already veto’d Derek going as himself, and the laughter that followed was loud and almost neverending. Apparently Isaac was being an asshole and had _literally_ meant a dick, with the balls and everything. Stiles thought he was just making fun of his Alpha, but either way, it worked out well because they all had a good laugh, even Derek. 

It was nice seeing him laugh and smile. It made Stiles happy when Derek was happy, because he didn’t seem to _be_ happy very often. 

By the time they grabbed lunch, they were no closer to finding costumes as they had been when the conversation had started, but Stiles let it drop in favour of having more important conversations. Like whether or not Peter had alcohol at his parties.

Which he apparently did, for those of legal drinking age, and thus not for Stiles. He was sure he could sneak a drink, though had to rethink that when he realized a majority of the attendees would be Werewolves. 

The rest of the drive was conducted in comfortable chatter. Isaac stumbled a few times with Derek, but Stiles was quick to pick everything back up in such a way that Isaac finally seemed to understand that reacting badly made things worse. He slowly learned by the end of the nineteen hour drive that if he asked a question Derek couldn’t answer, all he had to do was rephrase it in a way where Derek _could_. It seemed to do wonders for their relationship, and when they got back to Beacon Hills a little after midnight and dropped Isaac off, Boyd leaned forward before getting off at his own stop and squeezed Stiles’ shoulder in silent thanks before exiting the car. 

Heading back to the loft was as weird as Stiles thought it would be. They got inside, with Derek helping him to the stairs as usual in the dark, and once they were back in the loft, everything was exactly the same. It was weird, but awesome. But weird. 

But awesome. 

Stiles took his time wandering through their home, looking at everything and trying to get accustomed to the feeling of coming back to something. He hadn’t realized how nice this could be until this moment and his chest ached. It was so comforting having a place to come back to all the time, not having to move every few months, being around people who cared about him, who were friends. 

Derek’s hand fell on his shoulder and Stiles turned to him, seeing the way his expression tightened with concern. 

“I’m fine, big guy.” Stiles smacked him lightly in the chest. “Just... getting reacquainted, I guess. Is that a thing people do when they’ve been away from home? This is kind of a new thing for me.” 

Derek watched him for a moment longer, as if making sure he truly _was_ okay, then released his shoulder and jerked his chin towards the bathroom. 

“Nah, you can go first. I’ll get our stuff unpacked.” 

Shrugging, Derek obediently turned and headed for the bathroom, stripping his shirt off as he went. Stiles got to work putting away all the groceries they’d brought back with them, and dumped all the dirty clothes in a heap in front of the laundry machine. He brought the rest upstairs to their room and unpacked it all before heading back downstairs to snag a cookie while Derek was in the shower. 

He noticed that the door was wide open, which Derek hadn’t done in a long time before the cabin. Stiles figured it was just habit by now and shrugged on his way by, moving up to the Cookie Monster cookie jar and pulling the lid off. He’d dumped all the cookies they’d brought home into it, so he just grabbed the first one his fingers touched and crammed it into his mouth. 

It took him a while to realize how comfortable he was, and it occurred to him that there hadn’t been any snow on the ground outside. It had been cool, but definitely not like Wyoming, which meant he would probably be able to sleep comfortably tonight. 

Hurray for small miracles. 

He was still leaning back against the counter, munching on a cookie—his third one, Derek didn’t have to know, cookie police that he was—when the water cut off. Derek appeared in the kitchen doorway a few minutes later, towel around his waist and another rubbing against the back of his head to dry out his hair. He motioned the bathroom in an, “All yours” sort of way. 

“Thanks.” Stiles crammed the rest of the cookie into his mouth and moved past Derek to head for the bathroom and his own shower. He swung the door shut behind him, but when it didn’t latch, he didn’t worry about it and just stripped before getting under the spray. 

He was tired from the long day of driving, even though all he’d done was sit in the passenger seat and chatter away. Either way, he was tired enough that he cut the shower short, only washing up as much as he felt was needed before climbing out and towelling himself dry. He realized he’d made the same mistake as Derek, that being that he hadn’t brought any clothes with him, so he wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door. 

Derek was sitting at their little table in sweats with a book and a glass of water. Stiles’ pyjamas were folded on the edge, like Derek had realized he’d forgotten them. Their toiletries were also there, since Derek had been in the bathroom when Stiles had unpacked their things. 

“Thanks,” he said, moving to grab his clothes and toiletries. 

Derek turned to look at him, probably in acknowledgement, and Stiles paused when he noticed his eyes dip down and then back up. He cocked an eyebrow at him, but Derek just cocked one right back. Rolling his eyes, Stiles turned and headed back for the bathroom with his things, kicking the door partially shut. 

He relieved himself, then washed his hands and brushed his teeth, putting his sweats and oversized shirt on last. He got all of his toiletries back where they belonged, feeling a slight warmth in his chest at the realization that they had their own spots because this was his _home_. 

Gathering his dirty clothes, he headed back out so Derek could brush his own teeth and added them to the pile in front of the laundry machine. Tomorrow was going to be cleaning and laundry, probably. 

Stiles started to head up when he noticed Derek’s phone on the table. He detoured to grab it so he could plug it in for him, heading up the stairs to their bedroom when the screen flashed out of his periphery. 

He didn’t _mean_ to look down at it. He and Derek were good about being open and honest, so he’d never felt the need to snoop on him. So really, it was more of an automatic reaction at the flash on the screen. 

Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of the words he saw. 

**[Peter]**  
Everything is ready for him, you can bring him by tomorrow

This was Peter, so he knew it couldn’t be _bad_. And it was to _Derek_ , so it _definitely_ wasn’t bad. But still. It made him a little uncomfortable to read those words, and he wasn’t sure how he felt. 

When he heard the toilet flush downstairs, Stiles hastily turned the screen off so it wasn’t showing the home screen with the message, and went to plug it in on Derek’s side of the bed. 

He crawled under the covers, having missed their bed while they were away, and listened to Derek putz around downstairs for a time. Eventually, the light turned off and he climbed the spiral metal staircase, a shadow appearing at the top and moving silently to the bed. 

Derek went to the nightstand first, grabbing his phone and checking it before unlocking it and typing back a single digit. Probably a one, for ‘yes.’ 

“Everything okay?” Stiles asked, trying for casual. He was pretty sure he missed the mark by about a mile, but Derek seemed distracted. 

He just grunted in response, set the phone back down, and climbed under the covers. Once he was settled, Stiles lay down beside him, turned to face him on his side, but keeping their usual space between them. It wasn’t cold here, there was no reason to use him as a heater. 

“Hey Derek?” 

The Werewolf turned to look at him, eyes seeming bright in the darkness. They weren’t red, but they still had that shine all Werewolf eyes had when it was dark outside. 

Stiles wasn’t sure how to ask his question, and before he could figure it out, he chickened out and changed course instead. 

“Thanks for staying with me. I know you’d probably rather be doing something else, like having a life, but you’ve stuck by me since, well, before I even knew it. I just—thanks.” 

He could see the eyebrow raise even in the dark, Derek obviously not understanding. Stiles was just worried that maybe he was being kicked out of the loft. Something was ready for him, and somehow, he felt like he and Derek were about to separate, and he just... didn’t want that. 

“You’d tell me if you wanted to go, right?” he finally asked, as close to what he’d originally wanted to say as he could get. “Like, if you wanted a break, or a vacation or something, you’d tell me, right?” 

Derek sat up then, weight back on his elbows, and frowned at Stiles. 

“I’m just saying.” Stiles sat up too, knees bent and resting his arms on them, one hand raking through his hair. “I like having you around, but I know this isn’t what you wanted in life. If you need to take off for a bit, I get it. As long as...” It felt selfish to say it, but Stiles didn’t care. “As long as you come back.” 

Derek said nothing for a few seconds, then he shifted so he was sitting up fully without supporting his weight on his arms. He reached out and pressed one hand flat against Stiles’ chest, the warmth of it seeping through Stiles’ shirt. 

It was louder than anything Derek could’ve spoken aloud. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.” 

“Okay.” Stiles let out a harsh exhale. “Okay. Just—thanks. Sorry. You should sleep, you were awake driving all day.” 

Derek snorted, clearly reminding him he was awake _talking_ all day. 

“Shut up, I’m a treasure, and you love my beautiful voice.” 

The look he got for that made him smack Derek, but he felt a little lighter when he lay down for sleep. He stayed facing Derek, mostly because of habit from the past two weeks at the cabin, and shut his eyes for sleep. 

When he woke up a few hours later, Derek was snoring softly against his hair, and his arms were wrapped securely around him, holding him tightly against his chest. 

Stiles didn’t want to move, so he just shut his eyes and went back to sleep. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- There's some more Kate grossness, mostly centred around what Derek has to do to break the spell.  
> \- Satomi talks to Stiles about what his mother did to save millions of lives, which was basically a war against Weres. 
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- McGonnagall/Harry Potter (c) J.K. Rowling  
> \- Treasure Island (c) Robert Louis Stevenson  
> \- The Nightmare Before Christmas (c) Tim Burton  
> \- Little Red Riding Hood (c) Charles Perrault  
> \- Cookie Monster (c) Jim Henson


	9. Party Hardy

Waking up back at home felt _so good_ , Stiles didn’t even have words for it. They even had enough groceries to make a semi-decent breakfast, the two of them eating in companionable chatter. Well, the chatter was on Stiles’ side, but he and Derek were really good at communicating so it wasn’t a boring breakfast by any stretch. 

Once they were done and tidied everything up, Stiles got the laundry started while Derek cleaned up around the loft. It wasn’t dirty, per se, but a month of nobody tending to it meant there were thin layers of dust on various surfaces. Stiles snickered to himself when Derek blew dust off the TV and ended up sneezing. Derek’s sneezes were fucking _adorable_. Like a dog’s sneeze. They were so cute. 

When everything was in the wash and Derek waved away Stiles’ help on cleaning, he wandered over to the bookshelf to stare at all the books, hands on his hips and head tilted slightly. Lydia had been right about Witch magic being the best to start with, and he wanted to make sure he stayed on the ones he knew he could succeed at before moving into the harder ones, like Warlock magic. 

A part of him wanted to learn Mage next, but with the scare he’d had back at the cabin, he felt like he might need something a bit tamer next. He thought maybe Wizard magic. Or even Druid magic. Wizard magic was very philosophical and textbook-based, so he thought maybe that. Though Druid magic would mean staying in town since they had Deaton and Stiles was kind of okay with sticking around for a little while. 

Derek wandered over after a few minutes of Stiles standing there. He’d been shifting his weight and fidgeting with the end of his shirt where a thread had come loose, but he hadn’t made any move to choose a book and, apparently, it was noticed. 

Stiles glanced at him when Derek stopped beside him, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Trying to decide on my next teacher,” he explained with a one-shoulder shrug. “I want to stick to the theme of things I feel comfortable with, since I think I’m better at handling those. Once I’ve got those down, I can move to more dangerous things.” 

Derek gave him a head tilt that clearly said, “That makes sense.” Then the two of them stood there staring at the bookshelf. 

After a moment, Derek touched Stiles’ arm lightly, almost in inquiry, like he had a thought. 

“Yeah, go for it,” Stiles said, motioning the bookshelf. 

Derek hesitated for only a moment, then reached out and grabbed one of the books. When he handed it over to Stiles, he flipped it over to read the cover and hummed. Sorcerer. Stiles didn’t know much about Sorcerer magic, mostly that it was more theory-based and related to things like luck and astrology. It wasn’t so much _magic_ as it was learning to read signs available and use them to your advantage. 

Actually, that seemed like a good thing to move into. It would be less about using magic, which he’d definitely depleted over the last month, and more about the theory of magic. 

“That’s actually a good idea,” Stiles said, nodding once and grinning at Derek. “Thanks buddy.” He slapped him in the arm, and when he turned to head to the couch, Derek touched his shoulder lightly to stop him. 

Turning back to him, Derek motioned the loft door and Stiles turned to look at it. He supposed they had a lot to do, like grab real groceries and stock up on toilet paper and whatnot. Halloween was tomorrow too, and come hell or high water, Stiles was making Derek dress up.

Also, candy. 

Besides, Stiles had _just_ gotten back. A few days off wouldn’t hurt him, he was sure. And he doubted Peter had a lineup of magical beings ready for him, so he had time to read a bit on his own until his next teacher showed up. 

“Sure.” Stiles dropped the book on the coffee table, which earned him a smack across the back of the head from Derek. He let out a shout and turned to glare at him, rubbing at the injury. “Yeah, yeah. Old book, don’t toss it around. Sorry.” 

Derek motioned the stairs and Stiles went to get dressed, listening to Derek tinker around downstairs, likely checking on what they needed. When Stiles was ready, Derek already dressed for the day, they headed out of the loft and made it to the car without incident. Derek was still mostly tense about leaving the loft with Stiles, but he’d gotten better at it. Of course, the whole Argent thing had really rattled him, but he was still doing okay. Stiles wasn’t as much of a prisoner as he used to feel. 

He expected them to head for the store, but Derek instead drove them to a small, independent-looking flower shop. Stiles cocked an eyebrow in inquiry at him, but Derek just turned off the engine and climbed out. Stiles followed suit once the Werewolf was on his side of the car and they headed in together. 

The woman behind the till almost spat out her coffee when she noticed who walked in, but was polite enough not to hover. She just greeted them loudly and enthusiastically, and Stiles felt her eyes following him through the store. 

It was weird how virtually everyone in Beacon Hills seemed to know who he was. He supposed it made sense, considering everyone seemed to know who his mom was, but it was still disconcerting sometimes. They always stared, and it made him uncomfortable. 

Derek perused all the bouquets with an almost critical eye, pulling some out of the buckets of water they were in before grunting and putting them back. After what felt like much too long, he’d finally settled on two rather large ones, having tilted one in Stiles’ direction to get his approval. 

“Sure?” Stiles said, shrugging with his hands in his pockets. He had no idea what they were doing there, so he just went along with it. 

When they went to the till, setting the bouquets down, and Derek reached for his wallet, the woman held one hand up at him and offered a small smile. 

“I don’t need your money, young man. I know who you are. And who he is.” Her eyes shifted to Stiles and he tensed slightly when they glowed green. He had no idea what she was, but she was something. “I owe a lot to both of your mothers. These are on the house.” 

Derek grunted in thanks, and Stiles vocalized it for him, voice a little tight. The woman just smiled kindly and asked if they wanted them wrapped. Stiles had no idea, but when Derek tapped his fingers on the countertop once, Stiles relayed that it would be appreciated. 

She wrapped the two bouquets without another word, smiling to herself while doing so, and Stiles had to wonder what his mother had done to make this woman kind like this. To be fair, Satomi had been similar, so Stiles assumed his mother had saved her from the Supernatural epidemic, as well. Then again, this lady didn’t seem to be a Werewolf, but maybe she was of the Were gene. He’d have to ask Derek once they were gone. 

With the flowers wrapped, she handed one to Stiles, and one to Derek, then wished them a good day and told them they could come back any time. Stiles thanked her again for her kindness and followed Derek out of the store. Once they were back in the car, he asked if she was a Were, and Derek tapped the dash once before backing out and heading off. 

Stiles wondered what kind of Weres flashed green eyes. Or what it meant. He knew they all had different meanings. Red meant Alpha, hence Derek. Blue meant Beta human-killer, though Stiles had been taught the human-killer aspect could mean many things. It didn’t necessarily mean the person had _murdered_ a human, but that a human had died by their hand in some way and the Werewolf felt guilt over it. There was a Werewolf in one of Stiles’ Junior year classes who’d hit a pedestrian when his car had spun out of control during poor weather and the man had died. His eyes were blue because of the guilt he felt, not because he’d actively gone out with the intention of murdering someone. Stiles preferred to think the blue eyes meant a Beta with guilt. 

And, of course, the usual gold eyes for regular Betas without the guilt. He knew Purple eyes were for feral Werewolves, but they were rare since ferals tended to get hunted and put down by their own Alphas, so he’d heard there weren’t many of them and he’d never seen one personally. Green, though? He’d never even _heard_ of green. 

Something to look into, he supposed. Maybe she was a rare Were, like a nature one or something. Maybe instead of turning into an animal, she turned into, like, a _tree_ or something. That’d be kind of cool. 

He’d been so lost in thought that he didn’t realize where they were heading until Derek eased the car to a stop and Stiles finally looked up. His stomach twisted into knots immediately and it felt like he’d been sucker-punched. He could feel Derek watching him, as if to ensure this was okay, but Stiles honestly didn’t _know_ if it was okay. 

It would hurt. So much. He knew it would hurt, especially considering his dad wouldn’t be there. But at the same time, he’d been back for months and hadn’t come by _once_. What kind of son was he? A horrible one, apparently. He just hadn’t known how to do this, especially without his dad beside him. 

Or his dad there period. 

“I guess it’s about time, huh?” Stiles asked quietly, staring at the entrance to the cemetery and all the neat little rows of tombstones. “Can’t pretend she isn’t here.” 

Derek reached out to squeeze his wrist lightly, then climbed out of the car. Stiles felt his anxiety mounting as the Werewolf came around to his side and opened his door for him. Stiles was holding both bouquets for the drive, so he didn’t have any hands free. He levered himself out of the car, sticking close to Derek more for comfort than safety, and stared at the entrance while he heard the car door slam. 

He appreciated that Derek didn’t rush him, Stiles staring for a long while before finally taking a few steps forward. He made it as far as the sidewalk before stopping again, and a semi-hysterical laugh bubbled up from his throat. 

“I don’t actually know where she’s buried,” he admitted. 

Derek’s grip on his arm was gentle, and comforting, and the Werewolf tugged only once before letting Stiles move at his own speed. It was more of an affirmation that Derek knew where she was buried than him trying to rush him. It was clear that this wasn’t at all a place Stiles felt strong enough to visit, especially now. 

Fuck, his _dad_. He didn’t even know... he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t walk up to his mother’s grave and stare down at it and realize that the empty space beside her was meant to hold his father, and never would. It hurt too much. 

Stiles turned to Derek, feeling panic rising. “How am I supposed to tell her dad died because of me?” 

Derek scowled at him, making a sharp cutting gesture with his other hand that suggested his father _hadn’t_ died because of him. But Stiles _knew_ he had. 

“She probably expected to spend the rest of eternity with him beside her,” Stiles whispered, eyes returning to the sea of tombstones in front of him. “He’s probably still frozen in some morgue somewhere, the CIA trying to discern my whereabouts by examining every inch of his body.” 

When Derek tugged this time, it was a bit more insistent than comforting. Stiles didn’t want to do this, but he knew he had to. He knew he had to explain to his mother that he was the reason his dad was dead, and that the man she loved wouldn’t be buried beside her. Because there was no way for Stiles to get him there. 

Stiles obediently let Derek tug him down the rows, doing his best not to look at any of the names. He didn’t want to see them. Didn’t want to know when they’d finally reached his mother’s grave marker. His heart clenched more tightly in his chest with each passing second, and when they finally stopped, he thought he was going to puke. 

He knew she wasn’t really there. He knew she was dead, and that whatever afterlife existed, she couldn’t see or hear him. But it still felt like a lead weight in his stomach at the realization that there was probably a spot laid out beside hers ready for a body that would never be there. 

He didn’t mean to look at the empty spot. He’d been planning on avoiding it, so he didn’t have to think about it. But it was like a car wreck. No matter how hard he tried not to look, his eyes inadvertently shifted in that direction, to look at the empty spot of grass that would never be dug up. 

Stiles’ brain shut down when he stared at disturbed earth instead of growing grass. It was evident it had been a while since it’d been dug up, but still recent enough that it couldn’t have been more than a week, two at the most. His eyes shot up to the gravestone and he felt like he was falling. 

On one side, it said his mother’s name, along with her date of birth, her date of death, and a small blurb probably chosen by his father. 

_Claudia Anne Stilinski_  
_The Spark who cared for all._  
_Saviour of all, devoted wife and mother._  
_You shall be deeply missed._

And on the other side... 

On the other side it said his dad’s name, with his date of birth and date of death, and another comment. 

_Noah John Stilinski_  
_Loving husband, caring father._  
_Loved his son with all his heart._

Stiles didn’t know when the tears started, but his vision went blurry and he felt the moisture spilling over his lashes. He didn’t understand, because his father had died in Virginia, and his body had presumably been taken by the CIA after it had been held by the local authorities. But the engraving was new, made evident by how much shinier and clean it was compared to the one on his mother’s side, which had become weathered over the years.

And the dirt on that half was recently disturbed, and it looked like someone had recently been buried there, and Stiles _didn’t understand_! 

_“Hello, little Spark.”_

Stiles started and turned around, expecting to find Peter behind them, but Derek just tapped at Stiles’ arm and he turned back, finding the phone in the Werewolf’s hand. It was on speakerphone, Peter evidently having been called to explain since Derek couldn’t. 

_“Before you ask, yes, he’s really there. And yes, he chose those words himself long ago. He loved you very much, your father.”_

“I don’t...” Stiles couldn’t finish, his lungs constricting while he turned to stare at the graves. 

Peter seemed to get what he was trying to say, because he continued unprompted. 

_“Scott’s father works for the FBI. It took some doing, but after a rather lengthy conversation, wherein Scott agreed to many things he wasn’t happy about, his father pulled some strings to have the body released from the CIA and delivered to the Beacon Hills morgue. From there, Melissa and Parrish took over the rest.”_

Stiles didn’t even know what to say. He only knew bits and pieces about Scott’s father, mostly because Scott _hated_ him and never spoke of him. To hear that he’d gone above and beyond to do something to earn his father’s help was overwhelming and also devastating, because Stiles knew he could _never_ make it up to him. 

_“I believe you have my nephew to thank for this,”_ Peter said, sounding amused. _“He was rather vocal about it while you were in the cabin in Wyoming. I didn’t realize that dictionary could come in handy, you really must admire his perseverance, it must’ve taken him hours to take pictures of each individual word, crop it, and string them all together to form a sentence.”_

Stiles’ gaze shot to Derek’s face. He didn’t notice, too busy rolling his eyes, like it hadn’t been that big of a deal. But Stiles knew it was. He knew how frustrating it was for Derek when they spoke, having to flip back and forth to find words. How annoying it must’ve been. How much easier it would’ve been to just let the matter drop.

But he didn’t. 

Derek had seen how hard everything about Stiles’ father was on him, and he’d done something about it. Because Derek always did everything he could to make Stiles happy, even something as impossible as this should’ve been. 

Stiles was still holding the two bouquets, but he practically launched himself at Derek, wrapping his arms around him so tightly he was probably half-crushing the flowers, but he didn’t care. Derek seemed unsure of what to do for a second, then he slowly wrapped his own arms around Stiles and hugged him back, resting his cheek on top of Stiles’ head. 

“Thank you,” Stiles mumbled into his shoulder. “I don’t even—just _thank you_.” 

_“Touching as this is, I’m feeling left out, so I’ll take my leave. Don’t forget the party starts at seven tomorrow. Bring your own costume. Derek, give Malia my love.”_ Silence followed, suggesting Peter had hung up. 

Stiles didn’t know how long he stayed hugging Derek, but he started crying again, overwhelmed by both the amount of work that had gone into getting his father where he belonged, and also the reminder that he was well and truly _gone_. 

Derek didn’t seem to mind, hugging him tightly and rubbing one hand up and down his spine. He let Stiles cry against him until he went from heartbroken to just numb. When that hit, he was able to pull back, wincing slightly at the wet patch on Derek’s shoulder, but the Werewolf didn’t even seem to notice.

Stiles twisted his head to wipe at his face with his sleeve, clearing his throat and turning back to the gravestone. It felt surreal seeing both names on it, for multiple reasons, but he forced himself not to have another breakdown. 

“Can I have a minute?” Stiles asked, turning back to Derek. 

The other man reached out for one of the bouquets, Stiles relinquishing it, and then motioned a bit further down. Stiles turned and squinted slightly, vision still a little blurry from tears, and felt his heart sink when he saw a large monument with a very distinct ‘Hale’ emblazoned across the top. 

“Yeah,” he said, turning back to Derek. “Yeah, of course. Take your time.” 

Derek put one hand on his shoulder, squeezed, then released him and walked the few steps down to where his own family was. It occurred to Stiles that this was why he’d bought two bouquets. 

One for Stiles, and one for him. 

Having one hand free meant Stiles could pull the bottom of his shirt up to wipe at his face, and he cleared his throat again before bending down to place the flowers between his parents’ names at the base of the gravestone. 

Crouching, he stayed there for a long while, staring at their names and feeling tears beginning to form again. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, knowing those words were wholly inadequate for what he’d cost them. “I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t been born... if it wasn’t for me...” He pressed his lips together, then bit down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “Dad, I’m sorry I never told you how much I loved you. I promise I did. Every time you said it, I felt it, I just didn’t tell you. And I know it doesn’t make up for it now, but I love you so much. And I’m so, so sorry.” He reached up to wipe at his left cheek roughly, hating that he was crying again. But this wound was still extremely raw, and it wasn’t going to go away for a long, long time. 

His eyes shifted to his mother’s name, and he didn’t even know what to say. Thank you, seemed appropriate. For what she’d given up for him. But an apology seemed more on point for the life she’d lost keeping her son safe. Her son, who’d done nothing but make his father’s life miserable, treated him poorly out of teenage rebellion, and then regretted every horrible thing he’d ever said to him the moment he’d lost him. 

Stiles stayed crouched for a long while, letting the words come out as they did without giving them much thought. He was mostly apologizing. For being born, for how he acted, for taking so long to visit. He moved into the realm of training and Derek after he’d punished himself enough, and knew he could’ve stayed for hours.

He didn’t think that was a good idea for his first visit, though. Every few minutes his chest constricted and it was hard to breathe. He wanted to stick around, but he also knew he needed more time. It was already overwhelming being there to see his mom, but having his _dad_ there too, when he hadn’t thought he’d _ever_ get to bury him beside the love of his life, was a little too much for him. 

After what felt like hours but was probably only about thirty minutes, Stiles stood and felt his legs scream at him in protest for the prolonged stillness. He turned to glance at Derek, then looked back at his parents, letting his fingers brush lightly across the top of their grave marker. 

“I’ll come back soon,” he promised. “I’ll tell you everything. I’ll keep you up to date. I know you’re not really here, and that even if you are, I wouldn’t deserve you, but I’m going to make up for how I acted. I’m going to make sure you know everything about my life, because dad always wanted to know everything, and I never made the effort. I’ll tell you everything from now on, I promise. For as long as I live, I’ll tell you everything.” He felt his heart clench in his chest again. “I love you both. So much. I love you.” 

He let his fingers slide off the stone facing, hesitated, then turned to walk towards Derek. He made sure to make sufficient noise, though it wasn’t like Derek didn’t know he was coming. He didn’t look at him, just kept staring down at the plaques imbedded at the base of the monument, his flowers perched on the side.

It occurred to Stiles that maybe his family didn’t get buried there, maybe they all got cremated and the plaques were added as people passed. Stiles stopped beside him to look at them, and felt guilt wash over him again at the names he saw. 

Talia Hale and Michael Johnston-Hale. He hadn’t realized that Michael had taken Talia’s name. It was kind of nice, actually. To realize that social norms weren’t followed all the time, and that Michael had wanted to keep the Hale name alive. Looking at all the other names, Stiles noticed most of the Hales were men, so Michael had probably done it out of respect for Talia and what her family name represented. 

Stiles noticed that the two Hale parents’ names were right above another set of four plaques that had enough space for eight names, two on each. Two of them had already been filled. One said Laura Hale, with her date of birth and date of death, and the other said Oliver Hale with the same. Oliver looked to have been about three when he passed, his date of birth was earlier than Laura’s, so he’d been the eldest. The last two blank spots were evidently for Derek and Cora, additional spots available for their eventual spouses. That was all very depressing, in Stiles’ opinion. 

Though he did like that, in addition to Michael taking Talia’s last name, all the children had taken on the Hale name, as well. He still wasn’t sure if it had been done out of respect given the whole Gevaudan thing, or if maybe Talia and Michael had decided hyphenated last names were too much of a hassle and they’d all been given their mother’s last name for simplicity’s sake. He figured he could ask Derek one day, when the wounds of their losses weren’t quite so fresh. 

His eyes shifted to another plaque connected to Talia’s, venturing down from the same parents, like some kind of weird, horizontal family tree. That plaque was blank, and Stiles figured it was for Peter. He didn’t see another name on it, suggesting Peter hadn’t been married, or maybe the person he’d been with hadn’t passed. Or wasn’t deemed worthy of being present. 

He just knew there _was_ someone, because beneath the blank plaque for Peter was another plaque with a name, and he felt a pang of sadness when he remembered Peter’s words on the phone. 

_“Give Malia my love.”_

Beneath the blank plaque for Peter was the name Malia Tate. Her date of death was remarkably close to Talia’s, suggesting Peter had likely taken in the Hale siblings while still mourning the loss of his own daughter. It must’ve taken fortitude to care for others while falling apart, but maybe having other children in the house had helped him somewhat. Stiles didn’t know, but he felt infinitely grateful to Peter for having raised Derek and Cora—and Laura, to some extent—because they were amazing individuals and none of them had had it easy over the years. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said quietly. To Derek, to the Hales, to the world. 

Derek flicked him in the temple, but Stiles didn’t turn to glare at him like he normally would. He just stared at all the names on the monument, eyes rising to look at the large Hale engraved in the stone. He hadn’t noticed from a distance, but up close, he saw there was another inscription beneath it. 

_Here lies the descendants of the Gevaudan line. Always protecting, always watching, always ready to die to fulfill their oath. Let all who seek the Spark look upon the names of the fallen and recognize the might of a promise. Do no harm to the Spark bloodline, for we are formidable and many, and all those who wish to cause harm will perish by our hands. We are the Hales, and we are warriors, and we will protect to our dying breath._

“Your family’s hardcore,” Stiles said, trying for a half-smile. 

Derek snorted, and Stiles could practically hear him rolling his eyes. 

They stood there for a moment longer, then Derek touched his shoulder and led him away, the two of them heading back for the car. Once they were back inside, Derek turned to Stiles, his raised eyebrow asking more than any words how he was doing. 

“I don’t know if I can handle shopping,” he admitted quietly. “Can we go home?” 

Derek started the car and turned them around, heading back to the loft. When they reached it, Derek stopped the car by the door, letting it idle, and Stiles realized he wasn’t going inside with him. He felt guilty for not going with Derek when his morning had probably been just as emotional, but when he started to insist he would go, Derek just waved his words away and pointed at the door. 

After a few minutes of arguing, Stiles conceded defeat and went inside. He heard Derek idle outside the door until every lock had engaged, then the car pulled away. It occurred to Stiles that, barring that one time where he’d been hallucinating, Derek had never left Stiles alone before. He probably felt better about the security of the loft, being in a familiar space, and also Stiles’ protective magic.

Still, he wasn’t surprised when Boyd showed up less than two minutes later. How Derek had relayed the fact that Stiles was alone, he would never know, but he’d just started sulking in his little blanket fort inside the train car with his Sorcerer book when the door opened and he heard Boyd call out to him. 

The other Werewolf made him come out and head upstairs, where he proceeded to peruse all the food they had left and made Stiles a really great lunch. They sat and watched TV for a while, Stiles still wanting to just curl up and be a lump, but he supposed it was best he not. 

After about forty-five minutes of television, Boyd let out a groan and stood, stretching loudly and rubbing the back of his neck, looking over at Stiles. “You’ll make him come, right? Tomorrow?” 

“Yeah, I’ll make him,” Stiles agreed with a small smile. “I take it he’s back?” 

“Just parked the car,” Boyd confirmed. He started to head for the exit, then hesitated. “You know you’re good for him, right?” 

“He’s good for me, too.” 

“No,” Boyd insisted, shaking his head. “You don’t know what he was like before. How he was. We treated him like he was broken, because he _acted_ like he was broken. But ever since you... you’re making him feel like he can be normal, even if he never speaks again. You can hear him when the rest of us can’t.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Must be a Spark thing.” 

“No, I don’t think it is.” Boyd eyed him slightly, gaze calculating. “I think it’s just a you thing. Thank you. For reaching him when the rest of us couldn’t.” 

“I care about him,” Stiles admitted. “I think... blood oath aside, I think he saved me.” 

“I think you’re saving each other.” Boyd offered him a small smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Stiles.” 

“Sure.” He watched Boyd leave, listening to his steps recede down the stairs. After a moment, another set sounded coming back up, and Derek walked into the still-open loft door, arms laden with grocery bags. 

Stiles let out a small snort and kicked the blanket he’d been curled up under off himself. He wasn’t cold or anything, but he was out of sorts after his emotional day and he’d wanted to snuggle under it. 

“You’re such a nerd, you know you could’ve made multiple trips, right?” 

Derek just gave him a cold look and dropped the toilet paper he’d been carrying under one arm, making a bee-line for the kitchen. Stiles laughed again and picked it up, moving to put it away in the bathroom. 

When he started for the kitchen to help with the groceries, Derek walked out of it with only one bag, inhaling deeply while staring at the ceiling before letting it out as an aggrieved sigh. Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him, but Derek just reached into the bag to pull out a plastic square that he tossed at Stiles. When he caught it, he realized it was a costume and flipped it over to look at the picture. 

He let out another laugh when he stared at the Peter Pan model on the front. 

“Letting you go alone was a mistake,” Stiles insisted, shaking his head and flipping the costume back over so he could open the top and pull the costume out. “You just wanted to see me in tights, admit it.” He looked up to wink at Derek, but ended up doing some weird spasm thing with his eyes because Derek was still looking at the ceiling for patience while holding up another costume. 

It was Captain Hook. 

“No way. No _way_! Derek!” Stiles slapped one hand to his chest. “You got a costume to wear just for me? You _do_ love me.” He reached out to punch him lightly in the chest and Derek let out a groan, shoving him away and grabbing at Stiles’ costume before moving to the living area, likely to get them both open and straightened out so they weren’t all wrinkled for the following day. 

Stiles himself went into the kitchen to put away the groceries. He was only a quarter of the way done when Derek joined him, the two of them putting things away in comfortable silence. When he reached the last bag, Stiles cocked an eyebrow at the large tub of Neopolitan ice cream, holding it up to Derek. 

“What’s this for?” 

Derek took it from him and opened it. Pulling off the plastic film on top, he dug two spoons out of the drawer and stuck them into the ice cream, one into the chocolate side, and one into the strawberry. He then motioned them out of the kitchen and led the way to the couch. 

Stiles sat down beside him slowly, taking the ice cream from him when Derek handed it over, and watched the Werewolf bend down to pull the blanket back on top of them both before grabbing the spoon in the strawberry side and taking a huge dollop of it, sticking it into his mouth. 

“Is this your way of saying I have permission to sulk for the rest of the afternoon?” 

Derek stared him straight in the eye, and went for another bite of ice cream.

Stiles smiled, nudged him lightly, and grabbed his own spoon. “Thanks, Derek.” 

The grunt he got in return spoke volumes. “Anytime.” 

* * *

“I thought you said you still weren’t good at magic.” 

Stiles almost choked on his—sadly non-alcoholic—drink at Lydia’s sudden appearance beside him. He’d been standing in a corner of the large Hale house’s living room, by himself, looking around with a small smile while taking in everyone’s costumes. 

Scott’s was the most boring, since he’d come dressed in hospital scrubs and was just a doctor. Not quite as exciting as the others. Like Peter, who’d dressed up as Frankenstein’s monster. Or even Isaac who, hilariously, had dressed up as a cherub. Boyd and Erica’s _Nightmare Before Christmas_ costumes were fucking _amazing_ and, of course, Derek’s very convincing and awesome Captain James Hook. 

Stiles wasn’t a fan of the long, curly hair, but _man_ did those pants look good on him.

Turning to Lydia once he’d gotten his hacking under control, Stiles cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’m not,” he said, wiping some root beer off his chin and feeling like he’d burned the inside of his nose. Carbonated drinks were not fun to accidentally snort. 

“Then how did you get him into a costume?” she demanded, crossing her arms and cocking an elegant eyebrow. 

Lydia had decided to show up as the Goddess Aphrodite and _man_ did she look the part. She even had a blonde wig covering her bright red hair, and all the gold and pink makeup she wore to accentuate her dress and overall appearance made her every bit the Goddess she was portraying. Stiles felt like he could almost have a crush on her, if not for the fact he knew she was off limits, considering he was fairly certain he knew who she _did_ like. 

“I think the better question is how did you convince him to wear _that_ costume,” Cora insisted, coming up beside them, eyes on her brother and a drink in one hand. Her costume was much more mellow, just a prison inmate a-la- _Orange is the New Black_. Still a great costume, though. 

Stiles shifted his gaze to look over at Derek. He was grinning like a mad fool while holding Kira upside down. She was laughing so hysterically that she could hardly get herself organized enough to try and grab an apple between her teeth out of the large basin on the ground. Apparently Peter had found Stiles’ lack of childhood depressing and had done his usual extravagant affair with a mix of some old school games. 

That one was bobbing for apples, and apparently Derek and Kira were the only ones who found any enjoyment out of it. Stiles smiled endearingly at them, because he loved that Kira made Derek smile like that. It was bright, and genuine, and _happy_. He didn’t see it very often, so it was always nice when it made an appearance. 

Stiles started when Lydia snapped her fingers an inch from his nose. “Stop making moon eyes at him and answer the question.” 

“I’m not making moon eyes,” he insisted, rolling his eyes and turning back to the two girls. “And I didn’t get him into that costume. He’s the one who chose it for himself. He got this for me,” he said, motioning his very tight but still awesome Peter Pan costume, complete with little hat, “so I guess he just wanted to fit the theme.” 

“Honey, he wanted you in those tights,” Cora insisted, smirking while taking a sip of her drink. 

“Yes, and we’re all very grateful to him for it,” Lydia agreed while Stiles sputtered, completely floored, but neither girl let him get his thoughts back in order before bulling on. “Still, Derek has never once in all the years I’ve known him willingly worn a costume. Usually he just shows up as himself.” 

“When he shows up at all,” Cora snorted, downing her drink and licking her lips. “Refill?” she asked Lydia. 

The Goddess handed over her solo cup and Cora disappeared to grab them both new drinks. The doorbell rang then, and Stiles turned to glance towards the entrance while one of the pack members grabbed a bucket of candy off the hall table and went to answer it. 

Apparently everyone in town knew about the Halloween party Peter threw yearly for the Hale pack, but it was also the _best_ place to get quality candy, so the doorbell had been ringing all night. Stiles wasn’t allowed to answer it, but his location in the corner gave him a decent view of the door so that he always saw all the little kids in costumes. 

Lots of _Avengers_ costumes this year, but that made sense. His favourite so far was a kid who’d come dressed as a huge blueberry. Him and Isaac had laughed for a good minute, but it had really been well done. Apparently it was paper-maché, and Stiles really hoped that kid’s parents knew what they were doing because he doubted that paint was going to wash off easily. The kid would probably be tinged blue for days. 

“So, how are you?” 

Stiles turned back to Lydia when she asked him this and he shrugged, taking another sip of his drink before answering. “I’m fine. Mostly. Glad to be home, though I don’t expect I’ll be sticking around long.” 

“Home?” Lydia’s lips quirked. 

“Yeah. This is my home. Why?” 

“Nothing.” She turned away to accept her drink from Cora when the other girl approached, and Stiles saw the way she was smiling. He felt like he knew why she was pleased. 

After all, Stiles had never _had_ a home before, and Lydia wasn’t the first person to think it was nice to hear him call Beacon Hills his home. But it _was_. He was born here, he’d spent his childhood here, and now he was back and living here. Beacon Hills was his home, and he was going to do whatever he had to do to stay there. 

“Have you actually played any of the Halloween games Peter set up for you yet?” Cora asked. 

“A few,” Stiles admitted. “It was before you got down here.” He grinned and took another sip of his drink. He and Derek had arrived early, so he’d played a bunch of them without an audience. Only Derek and Peter had been there to watch him be a veritable child, but in his defence, this really _was_ the first time he got to truly enjoy Halloween. 

He’d particularly enjoyed wrapping Derek up in toilet paper for him to be a fake mummy. Derek, not so much, but he’d tolerated it. Peter had taken pictures. Stiles was going to frame them. 

“Hey,” Scott said, appearing beside them and punching Stiles lightly in the arm. “How’s it going?” 

Despite judging his costume, Stiles hadn’t actually spoken to Scott yet that evening, and it wasn’t until the other teen spoke that he realized, quite startled, he hadn’t said thank you. 

“Scott!” He hadn’t meant to say it so loudly, but the three around him jumped, startled. Stiles bulled one before they could ask him what was going on, his free hand falling onto Scott’s shoulder and pulling him in for a one-armed hug. “Thank you!” 

“Oh.” He could hear the smile in his friend’s voice while the other hugged him back, thumping him a few times on the back. Stiles chose to believe he hadn’t meant to thump him _quite_ that hard. “No problem. Really, it was nothing.” 

“It wasn’t nothing,” Stiles insisted, pulling away and keeping his hand on Scott’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “I know how you feel about your dad. I’m sorry you had to give up whatever you did to get this favour out of him for me.” 

“It was worth it,” Scott said. “I kept thinking about how I’d feel if it was my mom, you know? And when I realized my dad could do something, given his position in the FBI, I just... I don’t know. I guess I just thought about how happy it would’ve made me to have my mom here if it were me. Trust me, I can handle the deal I made with my dad as long as it got you yours.” He reached up himself to squeeze at Stiles’ shoulder, still smiling brightly at him. “I’m just glad it worked out.” 

“I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I’m happy to help.” 

Stiles was going to owe Scott for the rest of his life for this favour. Though maybe Derek a little more, considering it had happened at all because Derek had sat in their little cabin painstakingly taking pictures of words, cropping them, and stringing them together one word at a time.

He really, _really_ owed Derek a lot. 

“Come on,” Scott said, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and dragging him across the room. “Let’s go guess how many jellybeans are in that jar over there.” 

Stiles allowed himself to get dragged away, the two of them going around the room to play some of the games. Most of the pack was milling about chatting, eating and laughing. Derek and Kira were the only two acting like children, which Stiles was literally _thrilled_ about. He felt like Kira was really the only one who could bring out this side of Derek. 

When he and Scott were done with the two games they’d decided to play, they approached the basin where Derek was now being partially drowned by Kira since it was his turn to bob for apples and she kept pushing his head down whenever he got close to winning because she didn’t want him to usurp her. 

Seeing DC’s Katana cackle the way she was made Stiles a little afraid of her. 

“Stiles!” she exclaimed loudly when he approached, and he instantly understood why she was so happy and excited. 

She was very clearly drunk.

Not that Kira wasn’t usually happy and excited, she was just a bit more composed. Being drunk had obviously helped her let loose, and while he knew Derek wasn’t _drunk_ , he was at least a little inebriated, probably from Aconite. Made sense, considering this was the safest place in the world for Stiles to be right now. 

“Oh my God, did you bob any apples?!” Kira grabbed his arm and almost yanked him right into the basin of water on top of Derek. He managed to avoid drowning his friend, but still tripped over the edge of it. “Derek! Get up, let Stiles have a turn!” She smacked Derek’s butt, hard, and he jerked upright, turning to stare at her incredulously. Kira pointed at Stiles, who sputtered for a few seconds before being forced to his knees. 

“Good luck,” Scott said with a laugh, backing away slowly. 

“Scott, don’t leave me at her mercy!” Stiles insisted, but he was already gone, making his way through the various Halloween decorations towards the couch where Isaac and Parrish were chatting. 

Sighing, Stiles just pulled the hat off his head since he didn’t want it to get wet, but before he could start to bend over the basin, Derek pulled him up by the arm and Stiles let out a shout when he was twisted upside down, being held the same way Kira had been earlier. 

“If you drop me, you’re sleeping on the couch,” Stiles informed him, hands on either side of the basin’s lip. Derek just grinned down at him, looking particularly menacing with the whole Captain Hook thing going on. It didn’t help that his wig and hat had gotten wet from Kira’s attempts to drown him, it just made him look more deranged. 

Hoping he wasn’t about to get murdered by apples and water, Stiles obediently tilted his head and Derek lowered him. It was a _lot_ harder than it looked, and by the time he motioned that he needed to get right-side up again, he’d only managed to snag _one_ apple. Kira had gotten seven, so she was _clearly_ the master of this game. 

“Aw, look at you.” Kira ruffled his wet hair once he was standing on both feet again. “Growing up so fast.” 

“Does that mean you’ll get me alcohol?” 

“Nice try,” Peter said, appearing at his elbow. “But no alcohol for minors.” 

“I’m almost nineteen,” Stiles argued, and the second the words left his mouth, a thought occurred to him. He forced himself to think back on a day in spring, when he was sitting on a hotel room bed, terrified and angry at the Werewolf in the room with him, who’d just thrown his license at him. 

Turning back to Derek, he smacked him once in the chest. “Hey, beat Kira’s record for me, will you?” 

“Never!” Kira insisted, pointing at Stiles. Or, trying to, but missing him entirely while leaning heavily into Derek. The Werewolf just rolled his eyes, but he was smiling endearingly anyway. 

Stiles really liked Derek and Kira’s strong friendship. He kind of wondered if there was anything more there, and hoped that if there was, Derek would go for it. He didn’t want him to miss out on things just because his ancestors had sworn to protect Stiles’ family for the rest of eternity. 

He supposed on the bright side, he was the last in his line. He didn’t plan on having any kids, no need to bring a child into this mess. 

Turning to Peter, he motioned across the room, walking along with him until they were away from Kira and Derek. He trusted Kira’s loud laughter and the hustle and bustle around them to block out his next words to Peter. 

“Derek’s birthday is November seventh, right?” 

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “When did you two have a chance to discuss birthdays?” 

“We didn’t, I saw it when he showed me his license back in June after he kidnapped me.” 

“Ah. I forget about your memory sometimes,” Peter admitted, then nodded once. “Yes, his birthday is November seventh.” 

“I want to do something for him.” 

“Derek prefers to be left alone on his birthday,” Peter admitted. “No fuss, no fanfare. He just likes to be by himself. I imagine he’ll want you in sight, but a party is definitely not something he’d enjoy, if that’s what you’re thinking.” 

Stiles was actually trying to figure out how to get Derek to go out and spend his birthday how he pleased, but he knew he wouldn’t. He’d still try though, because if Derek wanted to be alone, then he deserved to be alone, though Stiles kind of found that to be a little bit depressing. He supposed everyone liked spending their birthdays differently, and if Derek preferred solitude, then Stiles was going to try and give him that. 

“Can I make him something? Like a cake?”

“He enjoys apple pie,” Peter offered. “And meatloaf, for some inexplicable reason. I have had my sister’s meatloaf, and it is _nothing_ one should put into their body.” He eyed Stiles for a minute. “I’ll find you the recipe and get you the ingredients before his birthday.” 

“Thanks.” Stiles grinned. “I appreciate it.” 

“Hm. Mine was October twenty-seventh. In case you were wondering.” 

“Oh,” Stiles said, startled. “Sorry. Um, happy birthday?” 

“Thank you.” Peter’s smile was small, but fierce. Like he was genuinely pleased Stiles had said those words to him. “I would like to think yours hasn’t changed over the years. April eighth?” 

Stiles felt like he shouldn’t have been surprised that Peter knew it, but he somehow still was. It made sense, considering his life, but it was still a little unexpected. He just nodded confirmation, and Peter hummed without saying anything further. Stiles wondered if he was already planning his party for him.

The scene around him made it very clear Peter knew how to throw a party. 

They moved away from birthdays after that, discussing various topics of interest. They actually managed to stay away from anything Spark related for a good two hours, other people having come and gone to join in on their conversations. 

During one of the stints where the two of them were alone and well away from Derek, Stiles explained what he’d discovered about Derek’s curse. Peter was the only person he knew who was actively looking into how to break it—despite how hard he denied it every time Stiles alluded to it—so he wanted him to have all the facts. 

Peter didn’t look comforted by what Stiles told him, especially since Satomi had insisted it couldn’t be broken by any magic except Kate’s. Stiles was adamant he wasn’t going to give up though, and while Peter didn’t say anything, Stiles knew he wouldn’t give up, either. They’d scour through millennia of books and find _something_ eventually, he was sure. 

They had to move on to other topics of discussion when Kira ran past them to grab some food, tugging Derek along with her. He looked like he was having the time of his life, and Stiles couldn’t help the small, fond smile that crossed his features at the sight of Derek happy. He was quickly distracted though by Isaac appearing beside him and asking if he wanted to try and give him happy thoughts to learn how to fly. Stiles laughed, but Peter looked unimpressed and told Isaac to stop trying to sleep with every male within his age range. 

All in all, the conversations Stiles had were fun, even if some of them bordered on the depressing at times. 

It wasn’t until a much more sober Derek wandered over, eating what looked like one of the many finger foods Peter had left out for them, that Peter brought up what Stiles was at all. It was obviously because Derek’s return to the land of the sober meant they would be heading out soon, which was fair given it was quarter past midnight and thus technically no longer Halloween. 

When Peter asked what he wanted to study next, Stiles informed him about his desire to learn Sorcerer magic but also mentioned he wasn’t ready to head out of town just yet. As luck would have it, apparently he wouldn’t have to for Sorcerer magic, because Kira’s father was a Sorcerer. 

Stiles didn’t know if Derek had chosen that magic type specifically because of the teacher he’d have, or because he truly thought it was the best to go for next. Maybe a bit of both. Either way, he was grateful, but asked for a bit of time off before diving back into using magic. He wanted time to read a few Sorcerer books, and also get his magic reserves back up since he’d used up so much of it with Satomi. 

Having to use so much magic was slowly but surely increasing his capacity for it, but he still didn’t want to press his luck. 

He also wanted to get some more spells erected around his home, along with Beacon Hills in general. That was going to take a lot out of him, so he would need a bit of time to recover once he got around to it. 

Peter gave him two weeks. Stiles could handle that. Fourteen days was reasonable, and besides, it meant that he’d have time off on Derek’s birthday to try and get out of his hair. He had no idea how he was going to do that, but he would find a way! Maybe he’d just have Peter pick him up and he’d spend the day at the Hale house with him so Derek could hang out in the loft and... he didn’t know. Masturbate? Did Derek ever even do that? Stiles had never seen him do it.

Which made sense, since Stiles himself tended to do it in the shower, but Derek showered with the door open now and Stiles felt like the guy never _did_ that. Stiles thought maybe he was asexual before remembering Peter saying he used to be extremely sexually active when he was younger. It was more likely that whatever happened with Kate had made him severely sex-averse.

And now Stiles was sad and really hoped Kate hadn’t ever done anything sexual to Derek, but he felt inclined to believe she had considering his conversation with Peter. 

“Ready to go?” Stiles asked when Derek inhaled deeply and his jaw twitched. Stiles had seen him do that before while driving, it was him yawning without opening his mouth. 

Derek motioned the door in response and Stiles nodded, finishing the root beer he had in his cup and setting it down on the closest table. Peter and Cora had already told him not to worry about the trash since they’d do a full cleanup in the morning anyway, but he still felt kind of bad about it. 

“Thanks for inviting me to your awesome party,” Stiles said to Peter. “And for that other thing we talked about.” 

“My pleasure,” Peter said with another one of his small, fierce smiles. 

Stiles patted Derek in the chest on his way by and called farewell to the room at large. Most of them waved and called back to him, but some people didn’t have super-hearing so he had to wave kind of huge to get their attention. Lydia waved back when she noticed and he and Derek headed out the door. 

The porch lights were bright and illuminated a majority of the front of the house, making it easy to spot any potential threats. Derek seemed a bit more relaxed while they headed to the Camaro, and he pulled his wig and hat off once they reached it, tossing them into the back seat and chucking his large red coat as well. Stiles could understand, considering Derek already ran hot, and had been wearing a long-sleeved costume in a house full of people. He’d probably been dying, though he looked as good as ever. 

“Thanks Derek,” he said when they were both in the car and the Werewolf was getting it started. “For dressing up. And letting me come to this.” 

Derek glanced at him, raising his eyebrows briefly before backing out and turning them around so he could drive them back to the loft. 

Stiles smiled and nodded. “I did. I did have fun. It was nice. Got to play some games. Got to chat with some people. Got to watch you get wasted.” 

Derek snorted and shot him a look that clearly said, “I was not wasted.” 

“Little wasted,” he insisted with a grin, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “It was nice seeing you let loose, though. And it looks like you had fun, too. Did you?” 

Derek tapped one hand lightly against the wheel, the corners of his lips rising slightly. Stiles was glad he’d obviously enjoyed himself, too. 

“So,” Stiles said when they turned out of the Preserve and down the long road that would eventually lead them to the abandoned area the loft was located in on the other side. “You and Kira seem close. Is that a thing?” 

Derek turned to give Stiles a disgusted look and he held up both hands in surrender. 

“Hey, hey, I was just saying. You guys are just... cosy.” 

He got another look for that and Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“Okay, yes, I _know_ men and women can be _friends_ , I just... No one makes you smile like she does. I just wanted to know if that was something you wanted, because I don’t want you to hold back because of me.” 

Derek cocked an eyebrow, glancing at him briefly, then reached out and poked—rather hard, _ow_ , Derek!—at Stiles’ arm. It took him a second to understand what that meant. 

“I’ve never... I don’t make you smile like that,” he insisted. Derek’s look said otherwise. “I’ve never seen you smile like that except with her.” 

The snort he got in response clearly said, “Then you’re not paying attention.” 

“Oh.” Stiles felt warmth in his chest at the realization that he was on par with Kira for Derek. It felt nice to know that he made Derek smile too, even if he didn’t remember seeing him smile as genuinely and brightly as he did with Kira. 

“Either way, if you ever wanted to, with Kira I mean, just—okay, _okay_!” Stiles insisted, trying to shy away from Derek because he’d started hitting at him, still looking disgusted. “She’s like your sister, okay, I got it. Stop with the abuse!” 

Seeming satisfied Stiles wasn’t going to say anything else to scar Derek for all eternity, the Werewolf put his hand back on the wheel and they continued on in silence. 

Stiles may have been wrong about Kira, but he hoped Derek found _someone_ to spend the rest of his life with. He didn’t want to ruin something else for him by existing, so he was going to make sure Derek got his happily ever after one way or another. 

Derek deserved to be happy, and Stiles was going to do whatever he had to to make sure that happened. 

* * *

**[Peter]**  
Hello Little Spark  
**[Peter]**  
I’m outside

Stiles had just finished putting on his shoes when he got the text, and he shushed his pocket insistently since he worried about the buzzing of his phone. Derek didn’t stir upstairs, but that wasn’t unusual anymore. 

Considering how they now slept—namely, with Stiles having a Werewolf blanket which, full disclosure, he _loved_ —it was hard for Stiles to sneak out of bed without waking Derek up. After a few weeks of it though, Derek seemed used to Stiles’ shifting around, and the few times he woke up before Derek and got out of bed, the Werewolf only shifted slightly in his sleep before settling again. 

Besides, Stiles knew the sound of the sliding door leading out of the loft would wake him, but that wasn’t going to cause any alarms to go off. Derek knew Stiles went down to the train car to read after breakfast, so really, he’d have no reason to think anything was amiss. 

Stiles acknowledged that he’d originally been reading in the train car to avoid Derek way back when, but now it was just habit. Derek had made him that nice little blanket fort and he was comfortable down there. He also liked the idea of potentially _not_ destroying their residence if his magic suddenly exploded for no reason so, yes, train car. Safer. 

Being sure that Derek’s birthday card was clearly visible on the table so that he wouldn’t panic when he realized Stiles was gone, said individual stood from the chair he’d been sitting in to tie his shoes after shoving his phone back into his pocket, and headed for the door. He winced when it screeched open, but again knew Derek would assume he was just heading down to the train car. He closed it as quietly as he could, which was a moot point given the screech, but he tried! 

Heading slowly down the stairs, he stopped to grab one of his books from the train car since he was planning on being productive at the Hale house, and then moved to the door. He unlocked all the different locks and opened the door only a smidge to peek out. Peter was smiling pleasantly at him from the other side of the door, so he stepped out and closed it again. 

“Good morning, little Spark,” Peter said as he started locking everything back up with his set of keys. “Sleep well?”

“Sure.” Stiles never knew how to answer that question. He slept, it was a thing most people did. Was it possible to ever sleep _well_ knowing the world was out to get him? Not really. “Thanks again for this, Peter.” 

“Anything for you, little Spark.” His smile was somewhat menacing, but Stiles just figured Peter didn’t like it when people realized he wasn’t an asshole. Had to keep up his facade somehow. 

The two of them headed towards the car so Peter could drive them back to the Hale house but when they reached it and Stiles tried to pull open the door, it was still locked. When he glanced up at Peter, the man was staring at the front door of the building, one eyebrow raised. 

Stiles understood why a second later when all the locks clicked and Derek exploded out of it. His eyes immediately found Stiles and he raced towards him so quickly, Stiles worried he wouldn’t _stop_ and would crush him up against the car. He did, but only just, grabbing at Stiles’ arm and pulling him back into his side, looking over at Peter with the most betrayed look Stiles had ever seen in his life. 

“Come now, nephew.” Peter rolled his eyes. “I am perfectly capable of watching him for _one_ day. Your lack of faith in me is hurtful.” 

Derek stabbed repeatedly at his own bare chest with one finger, hand tightening on Stiles’ arm. He was only wearing his sweats, nothing more. Like he’d woken up at the sound of the locks disengaging and had realized Stiles had left the building. Stiles was sure he spotted the card on the table, he’d specifically positioned it so it was in plain sight, so Derek knew he wasn’t being kidnapped or anything. 

“Derek,” Peter said, sounding a little annoyed. “I know you deem it your personal duty to protect him, but I can handle him for _one_ day! He’ll be at the house, Cora is still there, she doesn’t have class today.” 

Stiles was staring at Derek while he continued to jab at himself and point at Stiles emphatically. Sometimes, Stiles forgot that he was the only one who _really_ understood Derek, because Peter was completely misunderstanding why Derek was reacting the way he was. 

It had nothing to do with Derek not trusting Peter with Stiles.

It was that he didn’t want Stiles to _leave_. 

“Peter said you liked being alone on your birthday,” Stiles said before Peter could snap something back about being capable. 

Derek turned to him, still looking betrayed and wounded, and tightened his grip on Stiles’ arm. It was the clearest, “I _did_ ,” Stiles had ever heard. 

The past tense was not lost of him. 

Derek _did_ like being alone on his birthday.

Before Stiles. 

“I just wanted to give you what you wanted,” Stiles said, reaching up to touch Derek’s wrist where he was gripping his arm. “Peter said you liked being alone, so I wanted to—but I can stay. I don’t mind. I wasn’t leaving for any reason other than I thought it was what you wanted.” 

Derek looked so relieved that it physically _hurt_ to see him deflate like that. Stiles could see Peter giving them a weird look out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored him and just smiled slightly at Derek, punching him in the arm. 

“Big softie. Come on, then. Let’s go back inside and I’ll make you pancakes or something.” 

Derek made a face that had Stiles laughing, and he figured maybe eggs instead. He’d see what they had once they got back upstairs. 

But now he had a problem, because the whole idea was that he was going to spend the day at the Hale house, where all the ingredients for the meatloaf and pie were located. Stiles’ plan had been to spend the day there, then make the two items for dinner and bring them back to Derek later in the evening. Now that he wasn’t leaving, that made it difficult. 

“Can you bring the stuff we spoke about by later?” Stiles asked, turning to Peter, who’d quickly schooled his features while nobody had been paying attention to him. “Looks like I’m not going anywhere.” 

“I’ll fit it into my busy schedule somehow,” Peter said, sounding like this was the most obnoxious chore he’d ever been tasked with. 

Stiles didn’t miss the pleased tilt of his lips at the realization Derek _didn’t_ want to be alone. The fact that he wanted to spend his birthday with Stiles was a bit of a shock, if he was honest, because they already lived together, but it gave him the warm fuzzies. Being trusted enough to spend this day with him was nice. Stiles was going to make it the _best_ day. 

“Thanks. And thanks for coming by. Sorry for the trouble.” 

“You’ll owe me,” Peter said easily, then shooed them both away like they were a nuisance. 

“Add it to my tab,” Stiles called back, hitting Derek lightly in the chest and nodding towards the building. 

Derek obediently turned them back towards it, and paused when he realized he’d left the door hanging open. Stiles knew that meant he’d worry someone had gotten in, though why he thought that when Peter had been facing it this entire time, Stiles didn’t know. It was easier not to dwell on that part of Derek’s mind and to just let him do what he felt comfortable with. 

Once they were back inside and all the locks were engaged, when Derek went to sweep the area, still holding Stiles’ arm, he stopped him. 

“Can I try my sweeping spell first?” Stiles asked. “I haven’t really used it since practising with Satomi.” 

Derek just shrugged, which Stiles always interpreted as ‘yes’ and looked around himself while he waited. 

Letting out a slow breath, Stiles closed his eyes and tried to emulate what he’d been taught. It was a spell on the easier side, since it was really just him sending his magic out in tendrils to explore an area. The problem with it was that Stiles wasn’t a Witch, he was a Spark. Too little magic and it didn’t work. Too much, and he risked moving into another realm of magic and blowing through a wall or something. 

He pushed just the right amount and managed to do a quick sweep, pleased with himself when he succeeded. He nodded to Derek to let him know they were good, but knew the Werewolf would still want to double-check by dragging him around through the entire building. Predictably, he was right, the two of them ending up back in the room at the loft by the time they were done. 

“We should do this a few more times,” Stiles said. “Maybe have people come in without me knowing and I can sweep the place to see if I can spot them. It’ll make sweeping an area faster if we’re short on time and need to be safe.”

Derek made a thoughtful expression before tilting his head slightly, which meant he was probably going to look into it with the others. Stiles knew it would take a long time for him to feel comfortable trusting the spell over his own physical sweep, but any progress was still progress. 

“Now that we have that done.” Stiles thrust his arms in the air. “Happy birthday! Sorry I tried to remove myself from it, I just wanted you to have a good day and do what you wanted.” 

Derek patted Stiles’ chest lightly on his way by in a very clear manner and Stiles smiled, feeling warmth spreading through him.

“I don’t know _how_ you can think every day with me is a good day, but thanks. Hey, hey!” Stiles had to rush around Derek to stop him when he went for the kitchen. “It’s your birthday! No cooking for you. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Derek’s eyebrows rose and Stiles sputtered, insulted. 

“I can cook! I’m not great at it, but I can do it! I’m an adult!” 

Derek made a sceptical face and Stiles smacked him. That just earned him a small laugh and an eye roll, Derek motioning the couch. Stiles grinned, but before Derek headed off, he grabbed the card off the table and handed it over.

“For you. Sorry I couldn’t get you a present, but it’s hard to go shopping when everyone’s trying to kidnap you. I did order you something online though, but they were out of stock when I did so it’ll come a bit late. It’s being delivered to Peter’s place.” 

Derek’s smile was so fond then that Stiles didn’t even know how to deal with it. He just shoved the card into the Werewolf’s hands and proclaimed that eggs were on the menu for the day before turning tail and hurrying for the kitchen. 

He didn’t know how to act around Derek sometimes. He was always crossed between feeling like the guy should hate him on principle, and feeling like he wouldn’t have survived this long without him. As childish as it was going to sound, Derek was seriously his best friend. He hadn’t known what having a real friend was like until Derek. 

Sure, he’d had ‘friends’ while growing up, but they were just a means to an end school-wise for him. He knew he wouldn’t stick around long enough for the relationships to matter, so he’d never made an effort. But things were just so _easy_ with Derek. He was always there when Stiles needed him. Derek _cared_ about him. They hung out and did things. 

Stiles cared about Derek, too. A lot. He tried to think back on the summer months when he’d first met him, how much he’d hated him, and even after they’d moved into the loft, how little he cared about him. It was strange to realize that a little bit of perspective went a long way. And it felt nice being able to be himself with someone. 

Not just as the Spark, but _himself_. Loud, sarcastic, annoying. Derek took it all in stride, and he was just as snarky, even if nobody else could read him like Stiles could. He wanted to think it was a Spark thing, but everyone kept saying it was just a him thing. 

And that made him sad, because it couldn’t just be a _him_ thing. Because that meant that nobody else had really _tried_ to listen to Derek when he spoke, in his own way. Even downstairs, Peter had been getting frustrated thinking Derek didn’t trust him with Stiles, when every signal Derek was sending was clearly saying he didn’t want Stiles to leave him alone on his birthday. He wanted Stiles to stay. 

Shaking himself out of the warm fuzzies he was getting over being wanted around, Stiles started digging through the fridge for eggs and milk so he could make some eggs. He figured omelets, because he’d seen Derek eat them often enough that he knew what he liked in them. 

He felt gratified that Derek didn’t check in on him to make sure he wasn’t burning the kitchen down, and after a good fifteen minutes, he had one perfect omelet, and one less than stellar omelet. The first one had kind of fallen apart, but he’d learned from his mistake! 

Heading out into the living room with a cup of coffee and the perfect omelet, he brought them over to Derek on the couch, who was watching a documentary about the melting ice caps. 

“Nerd,” Stiles teased, but he smiled all the same while handing over the food and drink, fork and knife set beside the omelet on the plate. 

Derek smiled in thanks while taking them and Stiles headed back to the kitchen to grab his own meal. He fell down beside Derek once he’d set his coffee on the small table in front of them and crossed his legs under himself while digging into his omelet. It was hot, and didn’t look pretty, but it tasted pretty good so he hoped Derek liked it, too. 

“So, what do you wanna do?” Stiles asked, licking cheese off his lips. “Anything in particular?” 

Derek just motioned the TV with his coffee mug before taking a sip. Stiles looked back over at it and figured he could live with watching TV for a day with Derek. Besides, even if he wanted to tease him for being a nerd, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he’d watched a whole bunch of documentaries on global warming himself. 

Overall, it was an interesting day. They hung out and watched TV for a majority of the morning, and when lunch came around, Derek actually wanted to go out. Stiles was all for it, because he wanted to do whatever Derek was interested in doing, so he waited while Derek dressed and called up the stairs to ask if he wanted him to invite anyone else, like Kira or his sister. 

Derek pounded once on the ground and Stiles grinned before texting a few people from the pack. Most of them were working or in class, but Cora was free and Boyd said he could make it in about half an hour since he’d been on the morning shift. 

Once they were ready to go, Stiles told Derek to swing by the house to pick up Cora, and the smile on her face when the Camaro rolled up was priceless. Stiles didn’t know if the ‘being alone on his birthday’ thing was since the curse or before then, but he could tell Cora was thrilled she was allowed to share this day with her brother. 

They ended up going to the bowling alley, not because Derek was enamoured with the food there, but because he seemed to want to hang out and do something different and bowling was one of the easiest ways to have fun and be competitive. Boyd showed up while they were still getting their shoes and they split off into two teams. 

Stiles made Derek team up with his sister, which ended up being a mistake because they were both _exceptionally_ good and he and Boyd were both horrible. If there was a record for most gutter balls, Boyd had broken it that afternoon. 

After that horrendous game, they headed to the Chinese restaurant a block down from the alley for lunch. Kira ended up joining them then since her dad agreed to watch the shop for a bit so she could celebrate with Derek. He seemed to be having an amazing time, and Stiles was thrilled about it. 

Once lunch was done, it was obvious Derek was people’d out so Boyd took his leave and wished Derek a happy birthday. Kira gave him a hug and a kiss and told him to come by later for his present. When they drove Cora home, Stiles realized he could grab the ingredients to make dinner so that Peter didn’t need to bring them over.

As soon as they walked into the house to grab them, Derek seemed to pause, then touched Stiles’ shoulder before heading into the living room where Peter was. He took that to mean exactly what it was. 

Derek wanted to stick around. 

That worked out for Stiles, because Cora ended up helping him with dinner and the pie. She was much better at cooking than he was, so he was pretty thankful they’d stuck around. Once it was ready, they went to join the other two in the living room and Stiles noticed they were watching the History Channel. It was on some old war between the Fae and Hunters that the humans predictably lost. To be fair, it was probably why the Fae were mostly hidden in this day and age. 

Humans were assholes, Stiles could sympathise. 

Once the documentary was over, Peter popped in a movie since he didn’t want to end Derek’s birthday ‘on a sad note,’ and they watched the entirety of the first _Lord of the Rings_ movie before heading into the kitchen to eat dinner. 

Though Peter grumbled about the meatloaf, insisting it was disgusting and this was torture, Stiles could tell all three Hales looked nostalgic while they ate and he was once again struck with a wave of guilt. It was noticed, because Derek nudged him under the table and offered him a small smile. Stiles forced himself to smile back and they ate in comfortable silence. 

The pie was a real winner, though Stiles felt it was more Cora’s doing than his own. The wolves devoured the entire thing, Stiles only getting one slice before the rest disappeared. He didn’t mind, he had cookies at home, and he’d been noticing a distinct bulge in the stomach area. He was going to have to cut back on the cookies. That or work out.

No, he’d cut back on the cookies. 

Peter and Cora insisted on doing the dishes, waving Stiles away from the sink when he tried to get them started, and walked Derek and Stiles back to the door. Cora gave Derek a huge hug and wished him a happy birthday. Peter just clapped him on the shoulder, wished him a good night, and the two of them left. 

Once they were back in the car and heading for the loft, Stiles felt really good about the day. Derek seemed to have had a good time, and he was glad that he hadn’t spent it alone. 

“You’re so _old_ now,” Stiles informed him. 

Derek turned to give him an offended look, clearly conveying that twenty-four was _not_ old. 

“ _So_ old. The oldest. You’re practically a grandpa. Got one foot in the grave already.” 

Derek flipped him off and Stiles laughed, slouching in his seat and replaying the day’s events. He’d really hoped his present to Derek could be breaking his curse, but unfortunately he still hadn’t figured that out yet. Not to mention he’d been reading up on all the Sorcerer magic he needed to know before his first lesson with Mr. Yukimura.

He’d never met the guy, but if he was Kira’s dad, Stiles was expecting a pretty good experience. If Satomi was the McGonagall of his life, he thought Mr. Yukimura might be like, the Hagrid or something. Or maybe the Dumbledore. 

No, Deaton would be his Dumbledore, so probably his Hagrid. Or even his Lupin? He supposed Kira was pretty Lupin-esque. 

When they got home, Derek led the way back up to the loft, stretching once they were back inside and the doors were all locked. He fell onto the couch with a loud groan, throwing one arm over his eyes, and Stiles laughed before nudging at him with his foot. 

“Too much socializing for you? You know living with me is constant socialization, right?” 

Derek lifted his arm slightly to raise his eyebrows in a clear, “Why do you think I’m always so tired?” 

“Asshole.” Stiles nudged him again. “Was it okay? Today, I mean. I wanted you to have a good day, so I hope you had fun.” 

The arm fell off his face again and Derek gave him another one of those soft, genuine smiles that had Stiles’ chest go all warm and tingly. He cleared his throat awkwardly while glancing towards the kitchen and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Good. Awesome. I’m glad you had fun. Want a cookie? I want a cookie.” 

There went his resolve, he’d probably have to start working out after all. 

He hovered in the kitchen for a few minutes, trying to get the warm feeling to go down because he noticed his hands were starting to glow. He clenched them into fists and tried to rein himself in, closing his eyes and struggling to stay calm. Once the glow disappeared from behind his eyelids, he opened them once more and stared down at his hands. 

Everything back to normal, he grabbed two cookies and went to deliver one to Derek. They watched a bit more TV since it wasn’t something they did very often, then Stiles went to shower so he could get to bed. He had an early start tomorrow to get back on track, given his first lesson with Mr. Yukimura was fast approaching, and he wanted to be well-rested or he’d have trouble focussing.

Well, _more_ trouble focussing. 

Derek joined him half an hour later, freshly showered and smelling like ‘Ocean Breeze,’ according to the soap they both used. 

As soon as he was under the covers, Stiles rolled over into him and Derek pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around him. They’d long ago stopped bothering to sleep with their backs to each other considering they now woke up in a tangled mess. It was never uncomfortable, though. Stiles liked it because Derek was warm and his hold felt safe. He figured Derek liked it because it kept Stiles close and he probably missed contact.

He knew wolves were very touchy-feely, but Derek seemed like the kind of person who wasn’t really comfortable with contact after what he’d been through. His curse made that difficult to avoid though, so it was nice to know that Derek was able to make his own decision and willingly hold Stiles at night. It didn’t matter why, as long as the choice was Derek’s and no one else’s. 

“Happy birthday, big guy.” Stiles patted at the chest his cheek was pressed against lightly with one hand.

Derek grunted once in thanks, and they settled in for sleep. 

* * *

Stiles was correct in his assumption that Kira’s father would be his Lupin. 

Ken Yukimura was at once extremely informative, and made learning fun. A majority of the time he came over to the loft and he and Stiles had their lessons in the right-side up, elevated train car. Occasionally Stiles would go over to the Yukimura’s house with Derek, and that was always really nice. 

Noshiko was super polite and had this kind of regal elegance to her. Stiles felt like in another life, she must’ve been some kind of queen, because she held herself like one. It was kind of interesting. She was also really nice, and complemented her husband well.

And of course, if they were there, Kira was also around. She usually kept Derek entertained while Stiles and Ken worked on Sorcerer stuff. Not all the time, since Kira had a job—as did Ken, though he was on sabbatical—but whenever she was home, she would hijack Derek and they’d go do something else.

Stiles noticed that Noshiko seemed happy about how Derek was around Kira, and at first he thought it was because she wanted them to get together, but eventually she admitted one night while Stiles was helping her make dinner that she was glad Derek was starting to act like his old self again. 

No one really spoke about Derek before the curse, but evidently they’d all _known_ him. Noshiko was the first to really delve into it, explaining that he’d been happy and a bit of a troublemaker. He’d hardened considerably at the death of his parents, and was mad he couldn’t help protect the Spark, but he was, admittedly, a teenage boy who still knew how to have fun. 

He’d changed after the curse, and while Kira had done her best not to treat him differently, he’d still kept some degree of distance between them, as if he didn’t want her to turn her back on him like he felt everyone else had. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard this many times,” Noshiko said while wiping her hands on a dish towel, “but you’re very good for him.” 

“I’m really not doing anything,” Stiles insisted with a shrug while continuing to peel potatoes over the sink. “We just get each other, I guess.” 

“You are both very alike in some ways,” she agreed. “And very different in others. Perhaps that is why you complement each other so well.” 

Stiles just shrugged, because he never really knew how to talk about his relationship with Derek with other people. Derek was Derek. He couldn’t talk, but he expressed himself in other ways. And Stiles cared about him, a lot. 

“I am expecting great things from you.” 

Stiles turned to Noshiko, surprised, and let out a grunt when he accidentally peeled into his finger. He shook out his hand with a curse, which was a mistake since now there was blood on the counter and cabinet, and had just turned on the water to rinse it off while Noshiko started for the door to grab a bandage when they both paused at the loud thump from upstairs. It sounded like a stampede was coming down the stairs and Derek was beside Stiles so fast he jumped. 

He grabbed at Stiles’ wrist, eyes on the injury still beneath the water, and his nostrils flared. Stiles didn’t realize Derek was part _shark_ , Christ. There was no reason for him to have smelled the blood from upstairs and freaked out. 

“Will you calm down,” Stiles insisted, batting at Derek with his free hand. “I just nicked myself, I’m not _dying_. Stop hovering like a weirdo.” He shoved at Derek to get him to back off, trying not to get annoyed. He wasn’t _fragile_ , and it was clearly a small injury. It wasn’t like he was in danger. 

“Derek,” Noshiko said, touching his arm. “Come. I’ve got bandages in the bathroom upstairs for him.” 

It looked like Derek was going to shrug her off at first, but something in Stiles’ scent or expression must have tipped him off that he was getting annoyed because he released his wrist with a small scowl, then let Noshiko lead him away. 

Stiles stayed at the kitchen sink, finger under the running water, trying to rein in his temper. He wasn’t mad enough to have electricity sparking beneath his skin, but he didn’t want to risk blowing a fuse—literally—in the Yukimura’s household. 

Ken was the one who returned a moment later with a box of Band-Aids and some hydrogen peroxide. Stiles nodded a thanks while drying his hands on some paper towels, taking the hydrogen peroxide from Ken when he unscrewed the top and pouring some over the wound. He winced when it fizzed and bubbled over the injury, but he just patted the area around it dry and took the offered Band-Aid to stick overtop. 

“It’s not because you’re the Spark,” Ken said, making Stiles glance up at him in confusion. 

“What?” 

“When my daughter gets injured in another room, and I hear about it, do you know what I do?” Ken asked. 

“Ask her if she’s okay?” Stiles guessed. 

Ken nodded once while re-capping the lid on the hydrogen peroxide once more. “I call out to ask if she needs help, if she’s hurt herself badly, or if she’s all right.” 

Stiles didn’t get why he was telling him that for a good few seconds. Then he clued in. 

Derek wasn’t reacting like Stiles was weak or fragile. The reason he’d rushed down the stairs and into the kitchen was because he’d smelled blood, and he _couldn’t_ ask if Stiles was okay. He couldn’t just call out to find out if Stiles had cut himself, or if he’d been fucking _shot_ or if he’d exploded off a hand or something. He’d been forced to rush down to figure out how bad the injury was, and because it was under the tap, he hadn’t been able to see the damage, which was why he’d grabbed at Stiles’ wrist. 

He didn’t think Stiles was fragile, he just couldn’t voice his concern like other people could. 

Now Stiles felt like a dick. 

“You know,” Stiles said quietly, “people keep saying I seem to know him better than most. But every now and then, something happens that other people have to explain to me.” 

“You and Derek have a complicated relationship,” Ken insisted, helping Stiles gather up his waste and cleaning up the areas with small drops of blood. “It’s natural a part of you still thinks it’s all about the oath, but it hasn’t been about that for a long time. Derek cares about you because he cares about _you_. The oath and you being a Spark is just an added reason to stay close to you, but it is not _the_ reason he does it.” 

Stiles felt like he knew that sometimes. Other times, he forgot because he got mad about his lot in life. He’d never asked to be a Spark, he’d never asked to have all this magic. He just wanted to be normal, and have normal friends, and live a normal life.

But similarly, he also acknowledged that if he did, Derek might not have had anyone. Enough people were saying that Stiles was changing Derek, making him how he used to be, and it was hard to pretend he didn’t realize he was having an impact on him. If Stiles hadn’t been a Spark, was it possible Derek would’ve had no one? 

He didn’t like to think about that. 

“Perhaps we can leave the rest of the preparations to the others,” Ken offered, one hand on Stiles’ shoulder and leading him back out of the kitchen. “I still have much to teach you about the different positions of the stars and how that will negatively impact your other forms or magic.” 

Stiles tried not to groan. The astrology of Sorcerer magic was probably the most boring thing he’d studied yet, but he acknowledged why it was important. Apparently full moons were horrible for most of his magics, but supremely powerful for his Witch magic. Things he didn’t know. 

“Sorry about the mess. I did not realize sheering off skin would bleed so much,” he admitted while they headed back to the living room. 

“Happens to the best of us,” Ken insisted, sitting down with a groan and picking up one of his many books. “When you’re not some form of Were, anyway.” 

“Yeah, they lucked out on the whole super-healing thing,” Stiles muttered, grabbing the book and flipping to the applicable page. 

“Perhaps. But some things can’t be healed without help.” 

Stiles didn’t comment on that, but he felt inclined to believe Ken was talking about Derek’s heart, and how he was slowly learning to let people in again. 

He was going to have to apologize for getting snappy later. For all he knew about Derek, there was still so, _so_ much that he _didn’t_. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- More Kate bullshit and allusions to what she did to Derek. Just expect that any time Kate comes up, bad things are mentioned. She a cow. Moo moo bitch!
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Peter Pan (c) Disney  
> \- Frankenstein (c) Mary Shelley  
> \- The Nightmare Before Christmas (c) Tim Burton  
> \- Orange is the New Black (c) Jenji Leslie Kohan  
> \- Avengers (c) Marvel  
> \- Katana (c) DC  
> \- Lord of the Rings (c) J.R.R. Tolkien  
> \- Harry Potter (c) J.K. Rowling


	10. It Is So Very Nice To Meet You

It was just after two in the morning on December fourth when something snapped in Stiles’ mind and his eyes flew open. He jerked upright in bed, Derek letting out a confused grunt at the sudden action, and twisted to look towards the stairs. 

Derek sat up beside him, his hair matted down on one side and looking sleepy and confused. Evidently, he knew they weren’t in danger, because he would hear any threats approaching the building, but this threat _wasn’t_ approaching the building. Not yet. 

This threat had just crossed Stiles’ perimeter spell into town. 

“Something just came into Beacon Hills,” Stiles informed him, voice scratchy with sleep. 

Derek was alert in a second, reaching over Stiles and snatching his phone off the nightstand before pressing it insistently into his chest. It made sense, since Derek trying to text someone would take an eternity. 

Stiles’ hand was shaking when he went to unlock his phone and he shook it violently. He didn’t know that there was anything to be scared of yet, and besides, he was doing really well on his Witch magic and was pretty well done with Sorcerer magic since it was infinitely easier to learn—if a little useless, though he’d never tell Ken that. 

Hitting Peter’s name in his contacts, he brought the phone to his ear and listened to it ring. When the call connected, he knew he’d woken Peter up, but he sounded alert and ready for action, as if seeing Stiles call him in the middle of the night meant something bad was going down. 

_“Little Spark, what is it?”_

“Something just crossed into town. My perimeter spell was triggered.” He wished he knew _what_ , exactly, had come calling, but he wasn’t at that level yet. Satomi had said he would get there with practice, but for now it was just a general spell of anyone looking for the Spark. That could be anything from someone looking for him for malicious reasons, to someone who wanted to take a picture with him for their bucket list. 

Somehow, he doubted it was the latter. 

_“I’ll call the pack. Stay in the loft.”_

Peter hung up.

Stiles couldn’t _wait_ until he was all-powerful and people wouldn’t have to sideline him all the time. He was getting there, slowly but surely, though it still chaffed every time he was told to sit and wait. To be fair, he didn’t exactly have a great track record. 

Derek had moved to one of the bedroom windows, peeking out through the curtains. Stiles just sat on the bed holding his phone, watching Derek. He knew when people showed up based on how tense Derek got, and the curl of his lip. Derek didn’t need to be able to speak to curse colourfully, because Stiles could see his lips moving like he was using every swear word he knew. 

He glanced at Stiles for a moment, seemed to think, then grabbed at the blankets and threw them over his head. 

“Wha—” Stiles yanked at them to get them back off him, giving Derek an unimpressed look even as his heart began to increase in speed. “Hiding under blankets? Really? You think that’s going to work?!” 

The look he got for that was look number one—wow, it’d been a while since Derek so thoroughly thought he was an idiot. It took him only a second to realize what he wanted and Stiles stared down at his hands, concentrating hard. 

It didn’t take long, because he’d always been good at it. When his hands disappeared from sight, he looked up at Derek, seeing the Werewolf staring kind of at where he was, but not entirely. 

“Good?” Stiles asked, wanting to make sure he was truly and fully invisible. 

Derek grunted, then turned to look at the door when there was loud banging from downstairs. At least whoever was coming for him was polite enough to knock. 

Then again, Jennifer had knocked, too. 

It looked like Derek was going to try and see if they could ignore it, pretend no one was home, but the pounding came again, a lot harder, and Stiles cursed when he realized the Camaro was outside. People _knew_ that Derek, at the very least, was here. 

For a moment, nobody moved, and then Derek inhaled deeply, clearly annoyed, and moved to head downstairs. Stiles kicked the blankets off himself and scrambled after him. Derek paused halfway down the spiral steps to turn back and raise his eyebrows. 

Stiles flailed, knowing full well it was lost on Derek, but needing to anyway. “What?! Wouldn’t you rather have me close? I’m invisible, they can’t see me.” 

Derek looked torn between wanting Stiles to stay put, and letting him come along. 

The banging downstairs took on a more aggressive note and Derek made a face before jabbing emphatically at his side, making it clear that Stiles was not to leave him for even a second. 

Once they were on the first floor of the loft, Stiles moved to place one hand on Derek’s shoulder from behind, following him across to the loft door. He figured touching him meant Derek would know exactly where he was, and he could tell that knowledge was already making him relax.

Whoever was downstairs evidently wasn’t anyone of concern—at least, not _dangerous_ —because Derek was acting like this was more of an inconvenience than anything actually life-threatening. 

They went down the stairs quickly, Stiles glad he was holding Derek since he couldn’t see anything in the dark. When they reached the bottom, Stiles winced when he stepped on something sharp, but it didn’t break skin so he ignored it and followed Derek to the door. 

The Werewolf disengaged all the locks, and wrenched it open with a snarl on his lips. Stiles couldn’t see his face, but he was willing to bet Derek’s eyes had flashed red. 

“Derek. Nice to see you again.” 

Stiles had to crane his neck to see over Derek’s shoulder, frowning slightly. The man in front of him was vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until he took in the suit and the man behind him that he clued in. This was one of the agents who’d been tasked with keeping his father safe. Evidently not the ones he’d last seen, given they’d died along with his dad, but the set before. Or maybe even before that, they got replaced so often it was hard to keep track sometimes. 

Derek snarled, forcing Stiles to settle behind him to avoid doing anything weird that might make the men realize he was there. 

“Next time you ask the FBI for a favour, maybe try not to make it so obvious. Took us some time to determine why the FBI wanted Stilinski’s body, but once we knew where it went, we knew where _you_ went. Your uncle wasn’t smart, buying a new place. It made it infinitely easy to locate you. And where _you_ are, _he_ is.” 

The man started to take a step forward and Derek moved fully into the doorway, snarling menacingly. 

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Derek. He’s government property.” 

Derek snapped his teeth at that and Stiles felt his stomach clench at the words. 

Property. That was really all he was to everyone else. Property. Derek was the only person who treated him like a human being. 

Well, Derek and his pack, anyway. Others just wanted him because of what he was, not _who_ he was. This only further reinforced that he’d made the right decision trusting Derek. If he’d ever doubted it before, he knew for certain now that Derek was the only person he could honestly trust. 

“Get out of the way,” the man snapped. 

At first, Stiles wasn’t sure what had happened. One second Derek was standing in the doorway, and the next he let out a shout of pain and was doubled over. Stiles’ hand slid off his shoulder at the abrupt shift, and he saw red when he realized the agent was holding what looked like a cattle prod. He knew it wasn’t, it was probably a hand-held Werewolf taser, but it _looked_ like a cattle prod and that pissed him off _so much_. 

Stiles would’ve gone visible and freaked out at them, but even as he inhaled to shout something awful, Derek was back on his feet and had shifted one hand behind himself, low to his body, so it wasn’t as obvious. Stiles immediately took his hand. He didn’t know that that was what Derek wanted him to do, but at least he was letting him know where he was—which was still behind him. 

Derek shifted back a few steps, very slowly, and Stiles mimicked him. Then Derek moved aside, being sure to keep Stiles behind him, and practically pressed Stiles against the wall with his body. 

“Wise decision,” the agent at the door said, then motioned for others to head inside around him. 

Three agents went up the stairs while two more moved through the bottom part of the building, flashlights on and illuminating the area. Derek didn’t move for a long while, but he squeezed at Stiles’ hand where no one could see, tightly enough to make the bones grind together. 

Stiles just squeezed back, watching the men tear through the bottom floor. One of them called back that they’d found books on different kinds of magic in one of the train cars, and some of the agents upstairs must’ve confirmed through radios that his clothes were there, because the agent at the door looked pleased. 

When boots came back down the stairs, Derek let go of Stiles’ hand, likely because it would be visible and look weird. Stiles instead placed both of his on Derek’s shoulders, even though it was pretty obvious exactly where he was. 

“No sign of the Spark,” one of the men said quietly to the agent who was obviously in charge. 

Everyone else came back to reconvene at the door, the agent who’d been speaking to Derek sighing and fiddling with the Werewolf taser. 

“Where is he, Derek?” 

The only response he received was Derek very slowly crossing his arms over his chest. He leaned back further into Stiles, and he winced, because it was getting a little uncomfortable, but he forced himself to stay quiet. 

“My superiors want answers, Derek. His father signed an agreement, he _belongs_ to us.” 

Derek very slowly, and condescendingly, shrugged his shoulders. 

The man and Derek had a silent staredown for a few seconds, then the agent scoffed and turned away, motioning Derek. 

“Take him. We’ll get our answers one way or another.” 

Derek tensed and Stiles was ready to go full fucking _Witch_ on these people’s asses when another voice spoke and he felt himself relax instantly. 

“Now that isn’t very nice Kincaid. After everything you and Derek have been through.” 

The agent sneered when he turned to the door. “Peter. Been a long time since I’ve seen you.”

“Not long enough,” was Peter’s jovial response. Stiles couldn’t see him, but he could imagine how angry he was. It was laced in every syllable, despite the cheery tone. “If you touch my nephew, you will not leave this place alive.” 

“Are you threatening me?” the agent—evidently Kincaid—demanded. “I work for the United States government.” 

“And I work for a hotel chain, we all have our talents.” Peter still sounded perfectly pleasant, but Stiles could practically _feel_ the tension rising. 

“Where’s the boy?” Kincaid demanded. “We only came for what belongs to us.” 

“You see, here’s the interesting thing about that,” Peter said, still sounding chipper and downright terrifying. “His father signed paperwork advising that he would agree to allow the government to use his son in exchange for his protection. That contract was, arguably, in effect so long as Mr. Stilinski was his legal guardian. As it is, Stiles is now a legal adult, and thus the contract signed by his father, which pertained to his position as guardian, is now null and void. Because were his father still alive, he would no longer be able to sign something on behalf of his adult son. Now I may be wrong, but I believe Stiles hasn’t signed anything confirming he belongs to you and yours. What do you think?” 

“I think get out of our territory,” Cora’s voice snarled. “Stiles doesn’t belong to you.” 

“He doesn’t belong to you, either,” Kincaid snapped, and he moved out of the building so that Stiles couldn’t see him anymore. The other agents followed for the most part, but two remained inside with Derek—and Stiles—as if wanting to be sure that the door wouldn’t be closed on them. 

“You are absolutely correct,” Peter said. “If he’s here, it’s because he’s choosing to be.”

“No one would _choose_ to be with your kind,” Kincaid spat. “You lack the resources we have to train him.” 

“Of course,” Peter said, still cheerful. “The resources. Because you’ve had a lineup of Supernaturals waiting to train him since he was a child, haven’t you? His father kept insisting it wasn’t time, it was too soon, let him finish high school. You don’t care about Stiles, he’s just a weapon to you.” 

“He’s a weapon to everyone,” Kincaid shouted. “That boy is _dangerous_! If we don’t get a handle on him immediately, he could fall into the wrong hands.” 

“I assure you, he will not,” Peter said darkly. 

“Your oath means nothing to me,” Kincaid shot back. “It was just a promise made that your family is delusional enough to keep alive. You cannot expect us to leave a weapon that powerful in the hands of civilians.” 

“That isn’t up to you,” Parrish said. Stiles had to wonder how many people were outside. Presumably the whole pack, possibly some members of the Order. This was turning into an exciting night, apparently. “Call him a weapon all you want, he’s still a person. You can’t own him.” 

“He is government property.” 

“I don’t recall seeing your stamp on him,” Parrish shot back. “He isn’t property, he’s a _person_. And he’s not going anywhere.”

There was silence for a moment, and Stiles was sure Kincaid was going to concede defeat and leave. Instead, he must’ve made some kind of gesture, because the two men still inside the building moved towards Derek, one of them pulling out a Werewolf taser. 

Derek tensed, pushing back harder into Stiles, as if wanting to ensure he stayed safe behind him. When Stiles opened his mouth to say something, it was like Derek knew, because his hand clenched against the meat of Stiles’ thigh, hard enough to leave bruises. A very clear demand to stay quiet and let the pack handle this. 

“This is obstruction,” Kincaid said as the men closed in cautiously on Derek. “For all we know, you’re holding him against his will. Produce him, and we’ll hear what he has to say.” 

“Produce him?” Peter asked, tone having lost its cheery note. “If he isn’t here, it’s because he ran away when he found out you were coming.” 

“Or maybe he ran away from _you_ ,” Kincaid said darkly. 

Derek cried out when one of the agents shocked him. His hand tightened against Stiles’ leg, and he doubled over slightly, but he managed to keep his feet. 

“Do not touch my nephew,” Peter snarled, voice more animal than human. 

“He’s coming with us until you produce the Spark. If he comes to us in one piece, maybe we’ll return your nephew in the same condition.” 

Stiles felt like water was roaring through his ears. He didn’t understand what was happening, because these were meant to be the good guys. These were the people who’d protected him his entire life. They’d always followed and kept an eye on him, had ensured houses were safe before he entered them. Had literally come after him every time he’d ever run away. Sure, none of them ever spoke to him, both because they were afraid of him, and also because they feared the Hale siblings who’d followed him, but they’d never seemed like the bad guys before. 

But everything happening right now was bad guy behaviour. They weren’t acting any differently than the Argents had when they’d come for him. They’d hurt Derek, same as these people. They were trying to take Stiles by force, same as these people. They considered Stiles a weapon, same as these people. 

Stiles felt like he could feel his heart pounding in his chest, each thump of it making him angrier and angrier. He barely felt it when Derek’s fingers left his leg, but the sound of his friend hitting the ground brought everything back into sharp focus. 

His eyes shot down, Derek on his hands and knees with one of the agents coming at him with the taser again. 

Stiles didn’t think. He didn’t stop to consider what this would do. What people would think. 

He didn’t stop to acknowledge that he _would_ be a weapon if he did this.

They were hurting his friend, who’d done nothing but protect him and care for him since the moment his father died. Someone who’d been there for him even before Stiles knew he existed. Someone that _mattered_ , who’d already suffered enough, who could barely voice the pain he was in because some _bitch_ had stolen his voice.

Stiles didn’t think. He just reacted. 

_“Well hello there, Spark. It’s so very, **very** nice to meet you.”_

The words came from nowhere, like someone whispering at the back of his head. He didn’t pay them any mind. He also honestly didn’t know if it was electricity or lightning that danced beneath his skin when he got angry, but right now, he didn’t care. The second the agent started to press the taser to Derek’s skin, Stiles’ hand shot out and the guy flew across the lower part of the building so hard that Stiles honestly wasn’t sure he hadn’t fucking _killed_ him. The guy slammed into the sideways train car with startling force before falling to the ground. 

The other agent backpedalled quickly, stumbling over nothing and falling onto his ass. 

Everything outside went silent. 

Stiles moved in front of Derek while the invisibility spell melted away, his rage unable to allow him to focus on keeping it up. Derek was coughing behind him, one hand reaching out and gripping the back of the hem of Stiles’ shirt, probably a silent request to stay back. 

But he fucking wouldn’t. Not after that. 

“If you fucking touch him again,” Stiles said, voice distorted even to his own ears, “I will roast you alive.” 

The agent on the ground stared at him, horrified, and some part of Stiles in the far recesses of his mind was glad when the other agent groaned and shifted by his usual train car. He was glad he wasn’t dead, in the back of his mind, but the front part, the part focussed on the man cowering in front of him, was still pissed as shit that these people had hurt his friend. 

“Stiles, that’s enough,” Kincaid said from the door. 

The anger he could feel was rising, something dark and ugly. His hands were shifting from electric to something he couldn’t even describe. It was like the shadowy tendrils, except not. These were almost darker, twisted and flowing off his skin instead of up beneath it. He turned his head slowly to look at Kincaid, and the man’s eyes widened before he took a step back. 

“If you want to see a _real_ weapon,” Stiles said darkly, feeling anger and hatred clawing its way up his chest, “try touching him again.” 

A part of him knew something was wrong, because Peter looked _extremely_ worried behind Kincaid. Parrish and Deaton were sharing a look, and Noshiko was slowly taking a few steps back, eyes locked on Stiles. 

He knew that wasn’t a normal reaction. He’d done magic in front of them before, and no one had ever thought anything of it. He recognized something was _wrong_ , but all he could focus on was his anger at seeing someone like Derek being hurt. And for what? Literally no reason. Because he was just _easy_ to hurt. An easy target, someone who couldn’t voice his pain and beg for it all to stop. Because people liked hurting those weaker than them to feel more powerful. 

The agents still in the building seemed unsure of what to do. The one he’d thrown away was being helped up by the other, but they just hovered by the train car, like they were scared of coming near him. Stiles could see them out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his focus on Kincaid. 

The man looked uncertain, and nervous. Stiles felt like he could smell the sweat on him, could feel every shaky breath leaving him, could hear his heart pounding in his chest. The man was afraid.

Good. Because Stiles was angry, and he wanted him to be afraid. 

He started to take a step in that direction when someone appeared in front of him. He raised his hand to toss them aside by force, and had gotten it up almost to waist height when hands were on his face and his eyes focussed on who was in front of him. 

Derek looked fucking _wrecked_. Terrified, and worried, and just downright _broken_. His hands on his face were warm and comforting, and Stiles just stared at him like he’d never seen him before. 

One hand left his face, grabbing at the one Stiles had started to raise, and pressed Stiles’ hand against his chest. Derek’s heartbeat was slow and steady, at complete odds with the worried look on his face. But it was there, and he was okay, and nobody was going to hurt him again. 

“Get your men out of here. Now.” Stiles heard Peter say the words, but they didn’t register for a long while. 

He just kept staring at Derek, watching the tight expression slowly soften the longer they stood there, until the Werewolf finally let out a slow breath and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against Stiles’, thumb brushing lightly against his cheek. He was still holding Stiles’ hand against his own chest, and Stiles closed his eyes, fingers flexing against his skin while he focussed on the other’s heartbeat. 

“Is he back?” Peter asked cautiously. 

Stiles opened his eyes, pulling his forehead away from Derek’s and looking over his shoulder. He thought Peter was talking to someone else about the agents, but was startled when he saw the man staring at them, looking a little uncomfortable. Derek turned his head slightly and grunted, slowly releasing Stiles’ hand and face, but staying close. 

Stiles himself didn’t let his hand drop from Derek’s chest. A part of him needed reassurance that he was well and truly all right. He couldn’t see the burns on his skin where he’d been struck, Werewolf healing having already worked its magic, but he could still picture them in his mind. He could still see Derek doubled over in front of him, letting out shouts of pain when too many volts were pumped through his body. 

He could feel the anger rising again, dark and ugly and _wrong_ , but he just pressed his hand more firmly against Derek’s chest and closed his eyes, forcing the rage back down. He could hear the others speaking to each other in quiet tones, but they sounded very far away.

Stiles was tired all of a sudden. So tired. He just wanted to go back to bed. He didn’t want to be here anymore, he just wanted to go back to the loft, with Derek, and crawl back into bed. Pretend this entire night hadn’t happened. 

When he shifted to do that, his knees gave out. Two separate people let out loud exclamations but Derek was still right there and he caught Stiles by both elbows, keeping him upright. He was actually supporting most of his weight, and Stiles didn’t understand, because he was suddenly just so bone-deep _tired_. 

Even when he’d had magic deficiency, he hadn’t felt this exhausted, he didn’t know what was going on. 

“Get him back upstairs,” Peter said softly from right beside Derek. “I’ll see what I can do about the CIA. This little display didn’t help us as much as I’m sure Stiles hoped it would.”

Derek just grunted and Stiles forced his eyes back open when he was given one little shake. He looked up at Derek, who was still staring down at him with worry creasing his brow. Stiles winced and let out a small exhale, shifting one arm to wrap around his middle. He felt sick, like he was going to throw up. 

“I don’t feel so good.” 

Derek’s lips turned down into a small frown, and he moved Stiles around a bit so he could pull one of his arms over his shoulders before turning him back towards the stairs. Stiles felt like shit for that, because Derek was the one who’d been injured, and yet _Stiles_ was the one who apparently needed help getting up the stairs. He was sure Derek could just carry him, but was grateful he wasn’t treating him like some weird damsel in distress. 

Stiles heard the door shut behind them, all the locks engaging, likely Peter closing up behind them. He hoped that agent he’d tossed across the room was okay. He hadn’t meant to throw him quite so far, or so hard. He hadn’t exactly been in control. 

His foot caught on a step and he stumbled, but Derek held on tightly and kept him upright, leading him slowly back up to the loft. Once inside, Derek paused just at the door so he could shut and lock it, then helped Stiles along to the stairs leading up to the room. 

When they stopped in front of them, Stiles felt like it was almost more trouble than it was worth, but he forced himself to pull his arm back from around Derek’s shoulders and grabbed the railing with both hands. He had no idea why he was so fucking tired, he hadn’t even really done anything exhausting. The invisibility spell barely took anything out of him, and he’d had other random bursts of power before and he’d been fine. 

And his stomach hurt. It was twisting horribly and he felt like he wanted to throw up. His vision was swimming and he thought he might be fucking _dying_ with how shitty he felt. 

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped on the first step until Derek touched one of his hands lightly. Stiles’ hazy vision swam in and out of focus and he shook his head slowly. 

“I’ll just sleep on the couch,” he muttered, because climbing these steps on his own was impossible. His legs literally felt like they were being weighed down with lead, and everything about him felt heavy and off. 

Derek backed up a step so Stiles could come back down the one step up he’d taken—even _that_ felt like a challenge—but when he turned for the couch, Derek touched his arm again. When Stiles looked at him, still leaning heavily against the side of the stairs, the Werewolf turned and bent down, glancing over his shoulder. 

It took Stiles a few seconds to figure out what he was asking him to do, but eventually he just let himself drape over Derek’s back, arms hanging loosely across the man’s shoulders. Derek slowly reached back to grab his thighs and Stiles didn’t have to do anything else while the Werewolf stood and shifted him slightly so Stiles wouldn’t fall off. 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had given him a piggy back. He thought it might’ve been his dad, back before Stiles had started avoiding him. Back when he’d treated him more kindly, and acted less like an asshole towards the one person in the world who cared about him. 

Well, maybe not the _one_ person. 

Derek started climbing the spiral steps, moving slowly, likely because it was awkward with someone else on his back, and also to avoid anyone’s head hitting the steps above them. Stiles closed his eyes, cheek pressed against Derek’s shoulder. 

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, he was just so fucking tired. 

* * *

_“Tick tock. Tick tock. It’s been a long time. So long. Time is nothing in a place like this, but I can still feel it when it passes.”_

Stiles didn’t know where he was, or how he’d gotten there. Everything was dark and gloomy, and it smelled bad. 

No, not bad. Just... wrong. Like when he felt scared and the air just reeked of something unpleasant, that was what it smelled like. Something scary and unpleasant. 

_“Tick tock, says the clock. Time passes and passes and yet nothing changes. But you’re finally here now. Because you came to us. Because you wanted us. It is so very nice to meet you, Spark.”_

Stiles turned in a slow circle, trying to find the source of the voice. It sounded like him, except not. Disjointed and weird. He realized it was exactly what he’d sounded like earlier. Yesterday? He didn’t know. How much time had passed? Something felt wrong. 

“Hello?” he felt like that moron in a horror movie who heard something suspicious coming from a dark room in a haunted house and just called out to whatever evil was present there. Whatever this entity was, he knew it was evil. Something dark and twisted. He didn’t want to be here, how had he gotten here? 

He wanted to get out.

Where was Derek? 

_“We did so well together. So strong, so powerful. Protecting our friend, yes? Our wolf. **Our** wolf. He belongs to us and they hurt him. Doesn’t that make you angry? We should make them pay.”_

“Derek isn’t _our_ wolf,” Stiles insisted, wishing he could see through the haze. Everything was like a weird black fog enveloping him. It was making him feel sick, and he wanted to leave. 

He started walking in a random direction, but everything looked the same, and he was worried he’d walk right off the edge of a cliff. Or a building. Or fall down a flight of stairs or something. 

_“Oh, but he is, isn’t he? Our wolf. Always watching. Always worrying. They were hurting him. Right in front of us.”_

“There is no _us_!” Stiles snapped. “Who _are_ you?!” 

The laughter that followed seemed to echo around him, dark and malicious and positively gleeful. A cold chill crept up Stiles’ spine and he whipped around, then took two stumbling steps backwards. 

There was someone standing right behind him. It looked like him, but not at the same time. Wrong and dark and twisted. His skin was sickly pale, so paper-thin that it was almost translucent. Dark tendrils of magic were rising up from every inch of exposed skin, something almost tangible and dangerous. And his eyes...

His eyes were pitch black. 

_“We are what you could be. Power. Control.”_ Stiles took a few more steps back into the darkness when the other him advanced. _“You just need to let us in. Let us in, and we can take over. We can make them pay, make them **all** pay. For taking dad. For hurting Derek. For coming after us. Let us in, and we will be unstoppable.”_

Stiles felt his stomach clench with fear. He didn’t understand what this was, but he remembered what his hands had looked like when he’d knocked the agent aside. He remembered how scared everyone had looked, how _worried_ Derek was. 

This was a part of his magic, somehow. A dark part of it. Twisted and wrong and... evil. 

“Let me out,” Stiles whispered. Then, louder, “Let me out! Let me out of here!” He twisted around, trying to find an exit. “Someone _let me out_!” 

The laughter came again, surrounding him, suffocating him. He felt icy fingers on the back of his neck and ran. He ran and ran into the darkness, and he didn’t look back, even as the dark laughter followed him, echoing through his skull with every pounding step against the hard ground beneath him. 

* * *

Stiles started awake at the feel of coldness against his forehead and jerked back away from it, heart trying to dislodge itself up into his throat. He managed to snap his eyes open in time for a soft, soothing voice to speak. 

“Hey, it’s okay. Stiles, you’re okay, it’s just me.” 

The cold compress was placed against his forehead again when he collapsed back down, barely having had the energy to jerk away far enough to make a difference. Thankfully, it was only Melissa, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand holding the wet cloth to his forehead and the other touching his cheek. 

“Derek,” he forced out, tongue feeling like sandpaper. 

“Derek’s right here,” she promised. 

Stiles shifted his gaze to the side a bit more, looking over her shoulder. Sure enough, there he was, hovering worriedly. His face was pinched with concern, he had his arms crossed more in a defensive way than a condescending one, and he was shifting his weight repeatedly, like he wanted to pace, but was worried of straying too far away. 

“How are you feeling?” Melissa asked, voice still soft. 

Stiles let out a small whine, closing his eyes. Everything felt too bright, and he still felt sick. And hot. But also cold? He didn’t know, he just felt really off. And weak. He literally felt like he’d run ten marathons back to back and would never recover. 

“I don’t feel good,” he muttered, voice sounding pathetic, even to his own ears. 

“You’ve got a fever,” Melissa informed him, as if Stiles hadn’t already determined that for himself. “You’re lucky some of us are humans, Werewolves have no idea how to deal with this sort of thing.” He could hear the fond smile in her voice, her hand still pressed against his cheek. 

“How long have I been out?” 

“A few hours. Do you think you can sit up for me? We need to keep you hydrated.” 

Stiles honestly didn’t think he could move right now, and that realization was making him start to panic. What if people came for him right now? He may as well offer himself up on a silver platter. He knew Derek wouldn’t let anything happen to him, but he didn’t want to see him hurt again to protect him. 

Evidently it was clear he _couldn’t_ sit up on his own, but he felt the bed shift on the side Derek usually slept on and there was a third hand on him, brushing his hair back. It felt damp and gross and he wanted to shower, but he also didn’t want to move. 

The moving decision was taken out of his hands, because after a few more soft caresses through his hair, that hand shifted to his shoulder and he grunted when he was pulled upright. He felt Derek slide in behind him, moving up against him so Stiles could lean back into him, but even that amount of movement from lying down to seated made his vision crackle behind his closed lids. 

“—les? _Stiles_.” 

He forced his eyes open, realizing Melissa had been calling his name for a while. The compress was gone from his forehead, and she was holding out a glass of water. He stared at it, knowing that if he reached for it, he’d just drop it and spill water everywhere. 

“What’s wrong with me?” he asked, because he knew this wasn’t normal. Sure, he had a fever, but this wasn’t what he normally felt like when he had a fever. Weak, sure. In pain, miserable, whatever. But this was different. This was deathbed levels of exhaustion and weakness. This was him wanting to close his eyes and never open them again. 

But closing his eyes meant going back to that dark fog and the person who was him but wasn’t him. He didn’t want to go back there. 

“You’re going to be fine,” Melissa said instead of answering. “We should focus on getting your strength back up before we discuss what happened.” She reached out one hand to grab his right one, then pressed it against the glass. She helped him hold it, which was embarrassing but appreciated, and Stiles managed to drink most of it down without spilling the entirety of it down his shirt. He _did_ spill, just not all of it, so he considered it a win. 

When the glass was empty, she put it back on the nightstand and picked up the cloth again, dabbing it gently against his cheek and side of his neck. It felt nice against his heated skin, but he was so cold he felt like his hands were going to fall off. 

“You should get some more sleep,” she said softly.

“No.” Stiles hadn’t meant for it to come out as a whine, feeling pathetic, but his reaction had Melissa pausing with a frown. 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t want to go back there.” 

Melissa’s eyes shot over his shoulder, evidently looking at Derek. Stiles felt one arm come around his middle, holding him tightly. He didn’t realize how tense he was until he relaxed back into Derek. He was glad he seemed to be doing okay and that there were no lasting effects to the taser. He hated that it had happened at all. 

“You don’t have to go back there,” Melissa said softly, still pressing the wet cloth against different parts of exposed skin. “Just think about things that make you happy.” 

Stiles couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. “Like what?” 

The silence that followed was telling. When he opened his eyes after some effort, the look on Melissa’s face was sad. She evidently knew how hard it must be for someone like Stiles to think happy thoughts. Stiles felt like both he and Derek didn’t have much to be happy about in general. 

Then again, he _did_ have Derek. Not as his _wolf_ , like the dark him was suggesting. Not even as a protector. But as a friend. Derek was his best friend, and he cared about him, and he was right there. Completely lost on how to take care of a sick human, but doing his best and making sure to bring someone over who _did_ know how to take care of a sick human. 

“Drunk Captain Hook Derek was pretty great,” Stiles finally said. He got a snort in response, the action making him shift against Derek since it puffed his chest out a little bit. Melissa just smiled endearingly, pressing the compress to his forehead again. 

“Dream about that, then. Do you want to lie back down?” 

“No. This is fine.” Stiles closed his eyes again and let out a soft breath, turning his head slightly to get more comfortable. A part of him felt bad, because now Derek was going to be trapped for the foreseeable future, but the way Derek was holding him suggested he didn’t mind. 

Settling back in for more sleep, Stiles was still worried about going back to that dark place with evil him, but it was hard to think on it too much with Derek’s heat against his back, and his arm around his waist. 

Right before Stiles passed back out, the only thing he could think about was the fact that he’d never noticed before how good Derek smelled. 

* * *

Stiles didn’t know how long he slept, but when he woke up again, it was darker in the room, Melissa was gone, and he _really_ needed to pee. He shifted slightly before opening his eyes, and realized that he was lying on his stomach and Derek was gone. 

Forcing himself to sit up, he turned to look around the room and found Derek sitting in a chair beside the bed, reading a book. Well, he’d _been_ reading the book. He was now staring at Stiles since it was clear he was awake. He didn’t move though, he just waited, watching him. Stiles wondered if maybe he’d woken up like this before and then gone right back to sleep. He didn’t remember. 

“Can you help me downstairs?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. “I need to use the bathroom.” 

Derek shut the book and set it aside, then stood to help Stiles climb out of bed. His legs still felt shaky, but they held his weight and he felt a lot better than he had earlier. Stiles made it down the stairs on his own with Derek holding one of his arms awkwardly behind him so that he could catch him in case he fell. 

Once back on solid ground, Stiles went to the bathroom, shutting the door but not latching it in case he fell over or something. He didn’t want Derek to break the door down to get into the bathroom, they’d already had enough broken parts to their home without adding more unnecessarily. 

When Stiles was done in the bathroom, he splashed water on his face after washing his hands and moved back out into the main area. Derek was hovering awkwardly at the table, like he still wasn’t sure how to deal with a sick human. He motioned the table briefly, as if hesitant, and Stiles nodded. 

“Sure. Thanks. Do we have bread? Or soup or something?” 

Derek moved for the kitchen, but kept an eye on Stiles while he shuffled his way to the table. Once he was seated, Derek disappeared through the door. 

Stiles crossed his arms on the table and lay his head back down. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, or maybe Derek had just had something ready for him, because a hand slid through his hair softly after no time at all and he grunted before opening his eyes and looking up. 

Derek set a bowl of plain broth down in front of him, a spoon already in it. Stiles mumbled a thanks as Derek disappeared. When he came back, he had some toast and a water, which he set down in front of Stiles before he took a seat across from him.

“When did you last eat?” Stiles asked him.

Derek crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side, eyes shifted towards the left as he thought. He shrugged in response. Stiles pointed at the kitchen. 

“Make yourself food. I won’t eat until you have something.” 

Rolling his eyes like Stiles was being unreasonable, Derek sighed and stood up once more. Stiles heard him tinkering around in the kitchen and when he came back, he just had two sandwiches on a plate. They looked like they were peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Not the most nutritious thing for a starved Werewolf to eat, but at least it was food. 

They ate in silence, Stiles feeling better the more bites he took of the broth. He finished the whole bowl, plus the toast, and then drained the glass of water. Derek took their dishes back to the kitchen, Stiles turning to look at the stairs. He didn’t want to go back up and sleep, but he lacked the brain capacity to do anything that required much thought. 

He really wanted to look up his weird nightmare, but felt like that would just have him spiral back down into a dark place the next time he fell asleep. He figured maybe TV would be good, so he got up and shuffled his way to the couch. He sat down just as Derek came back out of the kitchen, and the Werewolf came to join him, sitting on the opposite end. When he raised an eyebrow at him, Stiles just waved one hand dismissively. 

“I don’t want to sleep anymore. Not yet, anyway. Can we just watch something for a bit?” 

Derek grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. He flipped through some channels before stopping on what looked to be _Avatar: The Last Airbender_. Stiles had never seen the show, but found it kind of funny that it was playing right now, considering the comparison Deaton had given him when he’d first come back to town. Today more than ever Stiles felt like he needed something to relate to, even just a little. 

He didn’t know how long it took him to fall asleep again, but one minute he was watching Sokka build himself a sword, and the next the screen was black and the loft was completely dark. Stiles blinked a few times, and saw he was half-lying on his side with his feet in Derek’s lap and a blanket draped over him. It was from their bed upstairs so Derek must’ve gone up to get it. 

When he glanced over at Derek, he was still sitting upright, arms crossed and head bowed, breathing softly. That definitely wasn’t going to be comfortable when he woke up later. 

“Derek.” Stiles nudged him lightly with one foot and the Werewolf started awake, eyes flashing red before turning to look at him. “Let’s go to bed.” 

Inhaling deeply, Derek rubbed his face with both hands, then raked one through his mussed hair. Stiles sat up properly, putting his feet on the ground and then stood up, holding their blanket. Derek motioned for him to go ahead and then followed him up the stairs. 

Stiles felt kind of gross when he lay back down, covered in dry sweat and still feeling a little warm, but he definitely didn’t have the energy for a shower. He just hoped he didn’t smell too bad to Derek since they were getting into bed together. 

He lay down on his side, facing Derek, who was busy fussing with the covers to make sure they were both under them. When he lay down and shifted over, Stiles curled into him like he always did, even though he was already feeling a bit hot. Derek seemed less warm than usual, and Stiles wondered if that was because he was so hot he trumped Derek right now, or if Derek somehow controlled his own internal body heat and could turn it up and down like a thermostat. 

“Thanks Derek,” Stiles mumbled against his skin. “Sorry I’m such a pain.” 

He got a light flick in the ear for that comment and just smiled. 

“I’m really glad you’re okay.” 

Derek’s grunt said, “I’m glad you’re okay, too.” 

Stiles closed his eyes and went back to sleep. 

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” Stiles said, waving his spoon at Peter after having taken his bite of cereal off it, chewing slowly while he spoke, “you’re saying that, while Sparks are all inherently good, once in a blue moon it’s possible for one to get so twisted up and corrupted that they can go evil and basically destroy the world?” 

“Not the wording I’d have chosen, but more or less, yes,” Peter said, watching the spoon, as if worried Stiles would lose his grip on it and have it fly at his face. 

“And a Spark that goes evil is called a Void, similar to how a Druid that goes evil is called a Darach.” 

“Correct, yes.” 

“And the only way to stop a Void is to either kill it, which in and of itself is borderline impossible, or for another Spark to come and destroy it, which is also impossible since I’m the last one.” 

“Yes.” 

Stiles nodded, running his tongue along his teeth, eyes flicking back and forth between Peter and Deaton. He shrugged expansively, throwing both hands in the air. 

“And it didn’t occur to you to tell me that this was a thing that could possibly happen _because_?” 

He heard Derek let out a small laugh beside him. Stiles didn’t think it was particularly funny, but he assumed Derek found it comical to see an eighteen year old mouth off at two adults who were both powerful Supernatural entities themselves. 

It had taken Stiles almost three days to get back to normal after his unusual illness. He hadn’t seen evil him again, which he’d been relieved about, but had originally chalked it all up to some weird fever dream. Now he was finding out that it _wasn’t_ actually a weird fever dream, and that the evil little dark version of him was _inside_ him. A part of his magic that all Sparks had, that was twisted and dark and evil, but that didn’t usually come out. 

Apparently its appearance drained so much magic that it forced the Spark into dangerous levels of magic deficiency, which was why Stiles felt like he was dying for three days. Thankfully it would only ever happen the first time, because it was like pulling out a piece of himself that was locked away behind layers and layers of magic, but Stiles still didn’t want to see evil him ever again.

Once was already more than enough. 

“It’s rare,” Peter said in response to Stiles’ accusation. “Sparks are full of light and goodness. They’re the key to the balance between good magic and bad magic. They don’t usually go Void without a strong trigger.” 

“Yes,” Deaton agreed, eyes shifting to Derek, who was chowing down on some Kraft Dinner without a care in the world. “And it would appear we’ve found yours.” 

Derek didn’t react to that, shovelling more noodles into his mouth, but Stiles cast him a sideways glance. Wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed that seeing Derek get attacked and almost dragged out of the building was what had set him off. 

Apparently the vision he’d had of not-him in his mind was what he’d actually looked like when he’d turned visible again. With the eyes and the skin and the weird tendrils rising off his body. It was why everyone had reacted the way they had, because he’d started to go Void, and if Derek hadn’t calmed him down, it was entirely possible he would’ve been too far gone to come back. 

A scary thought, and something that was now going to terrify him forever. If anyone ever came at Derek, it meant he had the potential to go Void and then destroy the world, so that was great. 

It also explained why he’d been so weak afterwards. On top of the usual first appearance of a Void draining magic, because Stiles hadn’t allowed it to take over, and he’d stamped down on so much rage and hatred to force the Void back, he’d basically been strangling his own magic to death. Stiles’ psyche had been trying to pull him back to his Spark side, but was fighting a war against his Void side. It was all very confusing, and exhausting, but as far as everyone was concerned, the fact that Stiles had only seen his Void self once right after passing out the first time was a good sign.

He was still a full-blown Spark, he’d beat the darkness back. 

For now.

And that ‘for now’ was what scared him. 

“You should’ve told me about this,” Stiles accused, forcing another bite of Lucky Charms into his mouth. It was overly sweet, and the cereal was soggy, but he needed the sugar after the war he’d just fought against himself. “You really can’t be keeping secrets about what I am from me when I could potentially _kill everyone_.” 

“We didn’t think it would happen with you,” Peter explained, offering Stiles an indifferent shrug, like it was no big deal that Stiles almost went all Darth Vader on the world. “If it didn’t happen when you found out about your father—” Stiles tensed at that, making Peter pause. He waited for a few seconds, to be sure Stiles was okay, before continuing. “We thought nothing would surpass that level of anger and hatred. We believed it was a non-issue.” 

“Then again,” Deaton said curiously, still eying Derek, who was happily eating his food and staying out of the conversation. 

Asshole. 

“I believe I can understand why this happened.” When he spoke next, he was speaking to Peter, not Stiles. “With his father, he didn’t realize until _after_ the fact that he had something to lose. With Derek, he _knows_ he has something to lose. And he wasn’t willing to lose it.” 

“I’m right here,” Stiles said dryly, putting his spoon down and picking his bowl up so he could slurp down the milk. It tasted chalky and sweet, but he forced it down anyway, licking his lips and putting his bowl on the table again. “So’s Derek, by the way.” He turned to him and nudged him, which earned a sideways glance and an eyebrow raise. “What, nothing to add?” 

Derek just shrugged unhelpfully. Asshole. 

“So how do I avoid this happening again?” Stiles demanded, turning back to Peter and Deaton, since Derek was apparently no help at all. Stiles figured he felt like he’d done his part, he’d brought Stiles back, he’d taken care of him, and now he was staying out of the conversation and taking some well deserved Derek time despite still sitting right beside Stiles. 

Seriously. _Asshole_. 

“Like, am I supposed to just not care about Derek, then?” 

_That_ , at least, earned him a reaction, because Derek turned to him sharply, looking like a kicked puppy. As if he honestly thought Stiles could stop caring about him just by trying hard enough. Derek was screwed, they were friends now, he was stuck with Stiles whether he liked it or not. 

“It isn’t so much caring about him that triggered your Void side, but more that he was being hurt in front of you,” Deaton said. 

“Yeah, don’t know if you noticed, but he’s basically already almost died for me like, twice or something.” Stiles thumbed at Derek. “I don’t see him standing back and letting me handle things any time soon.” 

“I think it’s more than that,” Peter said, eying them both thoughtfully. “I think this is the first time that you got _angry_ he was being hurt. Usually you’re upset when he’s hurt, or you’re worried or scared. But this time, you were angry.” 

“So?”

“Your Void side feeds on anger and hatred. You’ve been angry before, you’ve hated before, but this was just at a level above what you’ve experienced in the past. Coupled with the fact that your restrictor is now off and you’re still in training, it’s easier for the Void side of you, which is more powerful and controlled, to tempt you into giving up your Spark.”

“So... when I’m fully trained, I won’t have to worry?” Stiles asked uncertainly. 

“When you’re fully trained, you’ll know what Void feels like if it starts to try and take control again,” Deaton explained. “You can stop it before it takes over.” 

Another reason for him to master his abilities. He was two down so far, but that still left a lot for him to master. He knew Peter had already secured him a Wizard for the new year, him and Derek heading back up to the cabin in Wyoming which Stiles was _seriously_ beginning to think Peter had bought, and then February would be Druid magic with Deaton. Stiles liked that Peter was trying to make it one away and one at home in an alternating sequence. 

Though he hadn’t heard from Ken for a few days. And he hadn’t exactly forgotten the way Noshiko had backed away from him. How scared they’d all looked. 

The only person who hadn’t reacted badly was Derek. He’d looked worried, and terrified _for_ Stiles, not _of_ him like everyone else had. Derek was scared he’d lost him, which was entirely different to the fear the others had shown on their faces. 

“Everyone’s scared of me now, aren’t they?” 

Derek paused beside him, and even though Stiles was staring down into his empty bowl, he could see Peter and Deaton share a look. That was really all the answer he needed. 

Great. He’d only just managed to make friends, and apparently some dark, evil part of his magic living inside him had scared them all away. Terrific. 

“It was a bit of a shock,” Deaton said cautiously. “Everyone is just... hesitant.” 

“Sure.” Stiles stood up, taking his bowl. “Well, thanks for dropping by. I’m kind of tired, so I’m gonna head back to bed.” 

Stiles saw Derek open his mouth, like he was going to speak, but no words came out. He’d noticed Derek doing that more often lately, like he sometimes actually forgot about his curse. Like Stiles made him _forget_ he was cursed at all. 

He moved to the kitchen to put his bowl in the sink, then headed upstairs without looking at anyone. He wasn’t actually tired, he just didn’t really want to be around people right now. Every time he felt like he was getting ahead in life, something blocked his path and knocked him back a few steps. 

Reaching the bedroom, Stiles fell onto his half of the bed and pulled the covers up over himself. He knew he shouldn’t sulk, but he was tired of thinking maybe he could live a normal life only for the universe to laugh hysterically and throw another hurdle at him. 

He could hear a murmured conversation downstairs before the loud screech of the loft door opening and shutting. Silence followed for a long while and Stiles jumped slightly when the bed dipped. Sometimes he forgot that Derek could actually be quiet, because usually he tried not to be. Stiles figured it was his way of rebelling against his curse, by making noise as much as possible.

Derek sighed loudly, reaching out so one hand was on Stiles’ head over the covers. 

“It’s fine,” Stiles muttered. “No big deal.” 

Because at the end of the day, Stiles had grown up alone. Might as well just die alone, too. 

* * *

Nobody else came to visit for a few days barring Peter. He came to drop off some notes from Ken that were basically the last pieces Stiles needed of Sorcerer magic. He took them and retreated to his train car. Derek didn’t come in, likely sensing he wanted to be alone. 

They still ate meals together, and Derek pulled Stiles into his chest at night as he’d been doing since Wyoming, but for the most part he let Stiles have his space. He didn’t know if he appreciated it or hated it. He knew Derek wasn’t scared of him, and in some ways, even Peter seemed to have gotten over the initial shock and stab of fear, but every time Stiles closed his eyes, he could picture the terrified looks on everyone’s faces.

He could picture what his Void had looked like in his dream.

The only upside to Stiles almost going to The Dark Side was that apparently the government was happy to stay far, far away. Peter spoke to Kincaid’s superiors and it became clear that attempting to separate Derek and Stiles would lead to a Void, and nobody wanted that. And considering Stiles didn’t seem interested in going, Peter very politely informed them it was in everyone’s best interest to just leave him alone. 

Stiles was sure that wouldn’t last forever, but at least for now, they were happy to leave him be. As was pretty much everyone else, since nobody stopped by anymore. 

He tried to convince himself that it didn’t bother him, but it did. A lot. He often got distracted staring at his hands, wondering if it was possible for him to lose himself so completely that he _did_ go Void. To the point where even Derek couldn’t bring him back. 

Stiles clenched his hands into fists, and turned to look towards the door when he heard someone knock. He was sitting in his usual train car, so looking that way did very little in showing him who was at the door. He figured it was Peter again, though he had a key and usually let himself in. 

He didn’t hear Derek head for the door, but he heard him open it. No one spoke, so Stiles had no idea who it was until someone poked their head in through the hatch, smiling at him kindly. 

“Hey. Mind if I come in?” 

Stiles closed the book he had in his lap and motioned Parrish into his space. The officer seemed to struggle to enter, which Stiles found somewhat amusing because Derek was bigger than him and didn’t have any trouble. He assumed it was because Derek had done it so many times, maybe he just forgot how the Werewolf looked the first few times he entered. 

Parrish picked his way over to Stiles and took a seat beside him, looking around. 

“This place is kind of neat. You even made yourself a blanket fort.” 

“Derek made it for me.” 

“Well, it’s pretty cool.” Parrish smiled at him, then kept looking around, as if this was the most interesting thing he’d seen all day. 

Stiles didn’t understand why he was even there. Derek hated him, but he’d allowed him entry, which could only mean he’d been invited. Stiles had no idea why Derek would invite Parrish over, of all people. 

“I get it, you know.” 

“‘It’?” Stiles asked. 

“Took a long time for people to stop flinching away from me, too.” He turned to look at Stiles, offering him a small smile. “It’s not easy, knowing people are scared of you. Sorry I was one of them, I was just surprised, is all. Nothing about you seemed like it could ever turn Void, so when I saw you, I reacted. I’m sorry.” 

Stiles looked back down at his book, hands clenching around it, and propped his voice up when he spoke. “It’s okay. Not a big deal. I’m already a freak, so it’s not like hearing I’m part evil is all that much of a shock.” 

“You’re not evil, Stiles.” Parrish nudged him. “If you were, you’d look more goth.” 

He appreciated the attempted humour, but couldn’t manage to muster up a fake laugh. He settled for a sort of grimace, Parrish sighing and letting his head fall back against the train car. 

“I meant what I said, you know. About getting it. I know you’ve seen me turn, but you grew up a little sheltered from the Supernatural stuff, so I’m sure you don’t know what I am.” 

“Fire demon?” Stiles guessed. 

Parrish laughed. “Close. Hellhound.” 

Stiles let out his own laugh, this one actually genuine, but it slowly died out when he realized Parrish wasn’t joking. “Wait, you’re serious? That’s a thing?” 

“Rare, but it’s a thing.” Parrish turned to him with a small smile. “As you can imagine, I was not very well liked growing up. Nobody wants to play sports with someone who catches fire when they get pissed off. Makes for an awkward game when the ball melts.”   
  
Stiles hadn’t realized that Parrish was another one of the rares. Lydia was a rare Supernatural being, and now Parrish. And Stiles himself. Maybe Beacon Hills attracted the rare types because it was small and off the beaten path. One of those places that just felt safe for people to be themselves. 

“When I moved to Beacon Hills, nobody wanted to be friends with me,” Parrish continued, head resting back against the train car and staring skyward. “People were afraid of me, and avoided me as much as possible. My own mother was scared of me, though she did a good job of hiding it. I figured once I was old enough to set off on my own, I’d leave town and go somewhere else, somewhere where no one knew what I was. I’d keep myself hidden and maybe live a normal life.”

He went silent for a moment, as if thinking about something, a soft smile crossing his features. He let out a bit of a laugh, rubbing at his mouth, then turned to Stiles. “It’s funny when I think about it, because of the three rare Supernatural beings in our pack, all three were saved by a Hale.” 

Stiles frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“Lydia has Cora, you have Derek, and me... Well, for a time, I had Laura.” 

Stiles remembered the story Kira had told him, about Parrish and Laura. How they were an on-again/off-again item. He hadn’t really considered how much Laura had saved Parrish because until this moment, he hadn’t realized Parrish had ever needed saving. Maybe that was the reason that he’d wanted her to come back so much. It was more than because he was being selfish, it was because he loved her and needed her close to him, the same way Stiles felt like he needed Derek all the time.

“Laura is the reason people stopped being afraid of me,” Parrish admitted softly, smiling fondly at the ceiling once more. “She let me be myself, and after a time, the rest of the people followed. I felt less alone, even though I knew a lot of them were still scared of me. They tried, and that was what mattered. Eventually the town realized I was an asset, because I can run into burning buildings and survive explosions, but I’d never wanted to be a firefighter. So I went into police instead. I wanted to help people the way Laura helped me, and I guess growing up how I did worked out well, because I get to sit beside someone else people are scared of and tell him that it’ll work out.” 

“I think being a Hellhound is a little different from being Void,” Stiles muttered. 

“Maybe. But I had only one person in my life who wasn’t scared of me, and it helped others. You’ve already got that.” He tilted his head towards the hatch, referencing Derek. “Besides, I had to start from scratch. You’ve already got people who care about you, they were just surprised. You scared them, but I think you need to recognize that you pulled the darkness back really quickly.” 

“I didn’t pull it back, Derek pushed it.” 

“Yeah, but you let him. Still counts.” Parrish nudged him again. “They’re not all scared, you know. They’re just giving you space. They don’t want to smother you.”

Stiles didn’t believe that, but he just grunted in response. 

“Peter’s having Christmas at the house this year. He asked me to invite you since I was heading over anyway.” 

His heart clenched at the reminder that Christmas was coming. It was only a week or so away by now, and it was going to hurt like nothing else had so far. Because it would be his first one without his dad. He’d been trying really hard to avoid thinking about it, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore it forever. 

All the firsts were going to hurt. First Christmas, first birthday, first father’s day. They were all going to hurt. He didn’t want to think about them. 

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said. 

Parrish didn’t push. He just said, “Okay.” and left it at that. 

He stuck around a bit longer to ask about the book he was reading. It was Wizard magic, since he and Derek were heading out to Wyoming in January, and he’d basically mastered Sorcerer magic since it was so easy and mostly just memorization. 

Parrish seemed genuinely interested, but he ended up having to take off when someone radioed him. Apparently he’d used up his break to talk to Stiles, which made him feel guilty, but Parrish insisted he didn’t mind because it wasn’t every day he got to see him given Derek’s dislike of him. 

When he left, Stiles heard the door shut and all the locks click, then silence. He sat staring down at his closed book, mind wandering to Christmas. He couldn’t even remember where they’d been last year for Christmas. Maybe Tennessee? Had it snowed? He didn’t remember. Did they have a tree? They did sometimes, but not every year. Was last year one of the years where they had a tree? Had his dad made a turkey, or a ham? They alternated every year, so was last year turkey or ham year? 

He was still sitting there trying to remember when Derek ducked into the train car. Stiles didn’t say anything, so he took it as an invitation to move further in, falling down heavily beside Stiles and letting out a sigh. 

They sat in silence for a long while, Stiles still trying to remember what he could about the last Christmas he’d ever had with his dad. He felt guilty for not being able to pull any memories up. Given he had an eidetic one, the fact that he couldn’t remember made him feel like he’d purposefully stopped paying attention out of some rebellious teenage bullshitry. 

He regretted his past actions a great deal, because he wished more than anything that he could remember every single detail of his last Christmas with his dad. 

Leaning into Derek, he rested his head on his shoulder, finding comfort in his presence, as he often did. Derek shifted one arm around his shoulders, burying his hand in Stiles’ hair. 

They sat like that for a long while, until it got dark enough that Stiles would have trouble seeing and wouldn’t be able to find his way back out on his own. Then they finally went back upstairs. 

* * *

“Careful where you stand!” 

Stiles jumped when Cora practically head-butted him, giving him a big, wet kiss on the cheek before cackling and running off. He just stared after her, utterly confused, and wiped at his face with his shirtsleeve, almost distracted enough that the eggnog in his other hand started to tip dangerously. 

He wouldn’t have minded losing some of it, he wasn’t a huge fan, but it’d been shoved into his hand when he’d walked in and he hadn’t felt comfortable enough rejecting it. So he’d been wandering around with it for the past few minutes, occasionally sipping at it when he forgot what it was. 

“You really should move,” Lydia informed him with a fond smile, walking up to him and kissing his cheek. It was the opposite side from Cora, and a lot less wet, presumably because Cora had been trying to be bratty, whereas Lydia was actually civilized. 

“Why am I being kissed?” Stiles demanded with a raised eyebrow. “Not that I mind getting kisses from beautiful girls, but...?” 

Lydia smirked and looked up. Stiles did the same and frowned, because it looked like he was standing under a small bundle of lavender. It explained why the house smelled like a candle shop. 

“Lavender? Mistletoe out of stock?” 

“No, but do you want to kill half the people in the house?” she teased. 

“Right. Werewolves and mistletoe don’t mix.” 

“Peter likes the tradition, though,” Lydia said, standing beside Stiles with her own cup of eggnog. It looked considerably less full and Stiles wondered if maybe he could pour some of his drink into hers without her noticing. “He changes up what he uses every year, but whenever we see something hanging from the ceiling, we know it’s a mistletoe substitute.” 

“Someone wants attention!” Stiles jumped when arms wrapped around him from behind and this kiss came entirely too close to his mouth. “Better move before Isaac spots you,” Erica teased, then licked his cheek before laughing and running off. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna move.” Stiles inched away from the door he was beside until he wasn’t quite underneath the lavender anymore. Lydia just smiled behind her drink, clearly amused. 

Things had improved somewhat over the past week. After Parrish’s visit, a few more people in the pack started dropping by. He assumed it was Parrish telling them that space was making things worse. He could tell a lot of the adults were still a little tense around him, barring perhaps Peter, but the others were either better at hiding it, or honestly over what had happened. 

He even had a rather long conversation with Boyd and Erica about a time where they’d both almost gone feral due to being held captive by some Hunters. Derek had left the loft when they’d had that conversation, and Stiles figured he didn’t want to relive any horrible memories of his time with the Argents. 

He still felt a little weird around everyone, and mostly tried to keep to himself so that he wouldn’t scare anyone by sneezing too loudly or something, but they were trying. Like Parrish had said, it made a difference. 

And having all the girls rushing around him and kissing him because he wasn’t watching where he was standing was kind of making him feel a little less like a freak. He even got to laugh when Boyd accidentally stepped beneath the lavender and got jumped by Erica. Stiles decided he would pay attention to where he stood for the rest of the night, because Isaac had been very dismayed to discover he’d missed out on kissing Stiles. 

Not that he had anything against Isaac, he was honestly just a little concerned that Isaac would use it as an excuse to just make out with him. He liked Isaac, but not _that_ much. 

The party was kind of fun, and very similar to the Halloween one, except without games. It was mostly people milling about, chatting and enjoying themselves, with various finger foods. Peter had a full dinner ready to go, but that usually happened later in the evening. 

Derek had spent a majority of the day in the kitchen with him, and even now, he was still back there working. Peter was with him most of the time, but he also came out to make friendly and speak to the other members of the pack. 

Stiles noticed that Melissa was there, too. He didn’t know if she was pack, or if she was invited because she was Scott’s mother, but he was happy to see her. He really liked her, she was always nice to him. And she’d been the first person to stop in after Stiles’ Void episode and hadn’t acted like he was dangerous or scary. 

He figured, being a nurse, she had to leave her prejudice at the door, but he was still grateful for it. 

Stiles hung back in a corner with Lydia for a while, the two of them talking about how her classes were going until Cora came to steal her so they could dance to one of the Christmas songs that came on. Apparently they knew the entire choreography to the Christmas dance in _Mean Girls_ and Cora wanted to have some fun with it. 

Once he was alone, Stiles glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and quickly passed under the lavender and into the back of the house. When he reached the kitchen, Peter was at the counter muttering over his Ipad and insisting the recipe had changed on him, while Derek was at the stove mashing potatoes. 

Stiles wandered over beside Derek, who acknowledged him with a glance and a grunt. His muscles bulged while he mashed at the potatoes, and Stiles watched him work for a few seconds, handing over milk whenever Derek jerked his chin towards it. 

“You’re missing the party,” he informed him, because Derek hadn’t even left the kitchen once since arriving hours ago. 

Derek glanced at him, cocking an eyebrow in a, “So are you,” sort of way. 

Stiles shrugged and leaned heavily against Derek, staring into the pot of mashed potatoes. “I wanted to make sure you made enough potatoes for everyone.” 

That earned him a snort and a flick to the forehead. Then Derek stole his eggnog and downed it in one go. Stiles was grateful, because he’d been tired of carrying it around. He instead turned to hunt a Coke out of the fridge and started drinking that instead. Peter called him a traitor for drinking something other than eggnog, but he just shrugged expansively and took another sip of his drink. 

He spent most of the rest of the time in the kitchen with Derek and Peter. People came and went, but they mostly spent time out in the living room, which was fine with Stiles. He was happy making conversation with the two Hales. 

It was close to nine when dinner was finally ready. Stiles honestly wasn’t sure how Peter expected the pack to fit around the table, but as it turned out, they weren’t eating there. The food was laid out, but they all just took plates, loaded them up, and went back to the living room to eat and mingle. 

Derek ended up under the lavender, since he’d missed Stiles’ mishap of standing under it, so he got jumped by Kira and Erica. Cora passed but Isaac very eagerly moved forward to plant a huge kiss right on Derek’s lips. He got a snarl in response and Derek ended up pouting on the couch for ten minutes while Stiles laughed hysterically. 

All in all, it was a pretty fun evening. Stiles managed not to focus on his dad being missing, but he knew it would hit him eventually. He often found himself looking around for him before remembering he wasn’t there and forcibly redirecting his attention elsewhere. 

By eleven, he thought he might survive the night without a mental breakdown over it, which was nice. But he started getting a little nervous when presents were being distributed, mostly because of what he’d gotten Derek. 

Peter had told Stiles, rather vehemently, that he was _not_ obligated to get anyone gifts, Derek included. Stiles assumed it was because he had no money, but apparently he actually did and just hadn’t known about it. 

Now that the CIA knew where he was, it was less important to try and erase all traces of him in ways the government could find him. Stiles had noticed Derek leave the Yukimura house a few times during his training in late November, but only found out a little before Christmas that it was because Derek was actually the executor of his father’s will and he’d been dealing with settling his estate for Stiles. 

Different people had to go with him, since Derek couldn’t speak or write anything, which also made it difficult for him to renounce as executor. It had originally been Laura, but after she passed away, it became Derek, who couldn’t even sign his name because of his curse. Thankfully the lawyer was an old family friend of the Hales, so he just looked away when someone else signed on Derek’s behalf. 

So, Stiles had money. Which meant he could buy gifts. Which Peter had told him he did _not_ have to do. But Stiles wanted to. He didn’t want to go crazy, of course, because the pack was huge and he wasn’t _loaded_ , but he wanted to get people things just to show he was grateful for everything they’d done for him. 

He got Parrish and Peter larger gifts, but still moderately reasonable compared to what he’d bought for Derek. He’d really struggled hard with what to get him. His birthday had been tough enough, but he wanted something meaningful for Christmas. Once he’d figured out what he wanted, Kira had kindly offered to go out and get it for him with Parrish, since apparently Parrish was familiar with what Stiles was looking for. 

It also helped Kira, because she’d been stuck on a present as well, and had decided to buy an accompaniment to Stiles’, which was why he had to open the one from Stiles first. 

As soon as Peter started to slide the massive box over to Derek, Stiles panicked. What if he’d made a bad choice? What if Derek hated it? What if it pissed him off? 

“Wait!” 

Peter froze and Derek turned to him, confused. Stiles felt like all the air had gotten sucked out of the room and he wished he’d just asked Kira to bring the present to the loft so that Stiles would be the only one around when Derek opened it. He didn’t want a negative reaction in front of the whole pack. 

“Why don’t you and Stiles take your presents up to your room?” Peter offered with a smile. He said something quietly to Derek then, who seemed to think whatever he said was a good call, because he reached out under the tree to grab a small, wrapped gift and then stood. 

He held the gift out to Stiles, who took it, then bent down to pick up the box. Stiles had no idea how Kira had managed to find a box to put his gift in, but he supposed maybe she’d used a moving box? Or maybe they came with boxes? He didn’t know. He’d never bought one before. 

Derek jerked his head towards the stairs, so Stiles followed him up, staring down at his own wrapped gift. It had a card on it with his name, and Derek being the gifter, and he was again struck by how sad it was that Derek couldn’t even write out his own name. He knew that wasn’t the point, that the gift was what mattered, but he hated that Derek couldn’t speak for himself, even in the smallest of ways. 

When they got to Derek’s room, Stiles shut the door behind him and gripped his present tightly in both hands, Derek setting his own on the bed and turning to raise his eyebrows at Stiles, asking if he had permission to open it. 

“I just... I’m sorry if you hate it.” 

Derek rolled his eyes at him, then turned his back on him. He unwrapped it, Stiles struggling not to break whatever he was holding. Derek flipped open the lid on the box and froze, and Stiles was positive he’d fucked up. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, it was a stupid idea, and now Derek was probably going to be pissed at him. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I just thought—I know you can’t express yourself how you want, and you seem not to like the quiet, and I didn’t know if you knew how to play any instruments, but I figured this could be a way for you to let some sound out that no one could take away from you. You don’t have to keep it, we can return it, it was a dumb idea, I was just—”

Stiles cut off when Derek turned and yanked him into a hug, holding him so tightly he was actually kind of hurting him. 

For a few seconds, Stiles stood frozen, unsure of how to proceed. Derek was actually shaking, holding him like he was the most important thing in the world to him. Eventually, Stiles loosened his grip on his own present and released it with one hand so he could wrap his own arms around Derek. 

His eyes strayed to the gift on the bed, having asked Kira to buy it, but not having had the chance to _see_ it. 

It was just a plain acoustic guitar inside a soft black case. She’d wrapped it with the case folded back so that it was clearly visible, even though the shape of the case was fairly evident on its own. It looked glossy and perfect, and he’d honestly been thinking about Derek’s inability to express himself when the thought had come to him. 

He, personally, knew nothing about music in general, but he could learn it easily enough with his memory. Parrish played the guitar, and he’d agreed to help Derek out, which was also why he’d gone with Kira to buy a good one for someone who’d never played before. Kira had bought him a book on it, that came with a tutorial CD. 

Stiles had contemplated a keyboard at first, but the guitar seemed a little more Derek’s speed. And as scared as he’d been that he’d made the wrong choice, it was hard to think that with the way Derek was hugging him. At the same time, he was glad they were alone, because he didn’t think Derek would’ve wanted to show this much vulnerability in front of the whole pack. He was private that way. 

And the Alpha, which Stiles often forgot, because Derek didn’t really have the opportunity to be anyone’s Alpha, what with being stuck with Stiles all the time. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Stiles said softly. 

Derek tightened his grip once, then slowly released him. When he pulled back, he was grinning so wide Stiles was positive it would break his face. He was also kind of startled, because he’d never seen Derek look that happy before. 

He turned back to the bed and reached out to run his fingers across the strings once. Stiles smiled a little at the sound, and figured he was going to be hearing a lot of random strumming over the next few months. 

Derek turned then, and motioned Stiles’ present. He looked down at it, kind of nervous to open it, then let out a slow breath and unwrapped it. At first, he didn’t understand, because it just looked like some kind of book, but when he opened it, his heart hit his feet. 

He didn’t have many pictures with his parents. Barely any with his mom, considering how old he’d been when she died. But even with his dad, he didn’t have that many. Pictures weren’t really a thing for them, considering the life he’d lived on the run, without even knowing he was on the run. 

So seeing the first picture was a bit of a surprise. Because he didn’t recognize it at all. It was of his parents sitting on lawn chairs, looking at each other and laughing with Stiles on Claudia’s lap, sucking on his fingers and staring with wide brown eyes at whoever was taking the picture. 

He started flipping through the pages of the album, having no idea when most of these pictures were taken. Most were from when he was younger, and Stiles assumed they were photos the Hales had from the friendship between Talia and Claudia. 

But there were some pictures from after her death, too. Pictures of him and his dad when Stiles had still been relatively happy in middle school. Pictures of him and his dad when he was teaching a rebellious and angry Stiles how to drive. Pictures of him and his dad when he was old enough to insist he was leaving the second he graduated high school. 

There were pictures he didn’t remember anyone taking, and he wondered if Laura or Derek had known that one day he would regret not having anything. He wondered if they’d seen this angry teenager being a dick to his dad, and had realized that he would lose him eventually, and have nothing left but his guilt. 

Stiles hastily brushed moisture off one of the pictures when it rolled off his chin and closed the album. He didn’t want to ruin it, he wanted to be able to look at it again without worrying about ruining it. 

He’d been doing so well not thinking about his dad tonight, too. Because he hadn’t wanted to recognize this was the first Christmas without him. But he knew it wouldn’t last. If it wasn’t now, it would’ve been in the shower later, so he just sat down in the middle of Derek’s room and buried his face in his hands, photo album in his lap. 

Derek moved to sit beside him, one arm around his shoulders, and pulled him into his side. 

Peter had been right to send them both upstairs. 

Neither of them went back down until everyone else had left. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- Derek gets beaten up and tased by people who are meant to be the "good" guys. Stiles reacts fairly badly to it. (And by bad, I mean we meet the Nogitsune 8D).
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Avatar: The Last Airbender (c) Michael Dante DiMartino & Bryan Konietzko  
> \- Darth Vader/Star Wars (c) George Lucas  
> \- Mean Girls (c) Lorne Michaels


	11. The Nephilim

Stiles’ Wizard teacher was a short, portly man named Joseph who reminded him of Horace Slughorn. He asked way too many questions, and kept trying to convince Stiles to move to Nebraska and join his Conflagration of Wizards because they didn’t have very many “young folk” and he was eager to be the first to pull one in. 

The guy was also very distrusting of Derek, tried to cut him out of all the trainings—which he never did because Stiles kept reminding him if Derek didn’t stay, neither did he—and was just all around rude to him. It pissed Stiles off, but Derek seemed to find it funny, so that helped calm him down somewhat. 

Stiles was _not_ happy to be back in Wyoming, with snow on the ground and winter chill biting through him in that stupid clearing. Joseph hated it just as much and often tried to convince Stiles that they should really be training in his cabin. He did _not_ trust him like he did Satomi though, so Stiles just froze out in the forest during the day, and snuggled up with a Werewolf heater in the cabin at night. 

It was also kind of nice listening to Derek get used to the guitar. He’d started learning how to tune it and play basic chords back at the loft watching YouTube videos. Stiles was usually down in his train car while Derek was doing that since he figured he wouldn’t want to have an audience while he learned the basics. 

Parrish had come around a few times to help him with replacing the strings and teaching him a few things. Stiles was glad Derek was letting him, he honestly hadn’t been sure he would, but it looked like he was willing to put aside his anger for the moment. 

Derek still couldn’t play, but Stiles liked listening to him strum away at the guitar at night in the cabin while he read his books. He was just glad Derek liked his gift, and that it honestly seemed to be making a difference for him. 

Hearing Derek’s slow improvement was pretty much the only upside to his month with Joseph. Wizard magic was as frustratingly dull as Sorcerer magic, but with a lot more hands on so that Stiles felt drained and exhausted at the end of every lesson. He’d learned from his time with Satomi what magic deficiency felt like, so he always knew when he had to take a break.

Joseph didn’t seem to understand that he was pushing Stiles so hard, because he always complained when he wanted a break, but would then spend hours talking Stiles’ ear off about Wizard magic in general, so it worked out. Stiles didn’t dislike Joseph, per se. He just wasn’t particularly fond of him, was all. 

When the last day came up, Joseph asked him _again_ if he was sure he didn’t want to join him in Nebraska. He even offered to fly him up there, provided he left his mute mutt at home. That was when Stiles, very coldly, said goodbye and left without another word. Derek had laughed softly the entire way back to the cabin, like Joseph’s words had amused him. 

When they got home late at night the following day, Stiles fell onto their bed and groaned, rolling himself up like a burrito and watching Derek set his guitar case down gently by the far wall in their room. 

“Can we never leave again? I’m sure I’m good with the three types of magic I know now, can we just stay here now?” 

Derek gave him a look, rolled his eyes, then motioned he was going to take a shower. Stiles sighed and forced himself out of bed to put his pyjamas on. He’d showered the night before and had spent the whole day in the car, so he didn’t feel the need to wash up again. 

Once in his pyjamas, he lay back on the bed and stared at his hands, wondering if what he knew was making a difference yet. He hadn’t had any more dreams about being Void, and he hadn’t felt that same overbearing anger and hatred since the agents had been beating on Derek, but he worried about it every time he did any form of magic.

He’d been especially worried of doing something weird with Joseph, because Satomi was one thing, he’d really trusted her, even before letting slip what he was. Joseph, though? He didn’t think he’d do anything particularly malicious, but he could imagine the man blackmailing him into doing what he wanted by threatening to expose him. 

People knew a Spark still existed, but very few people knew who he _was_. Stiles wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. 

Stiles let out a shout and flailed when something cold pressed against his neck, and glared at Derek when he started to laugh, holding out a can of Coke. 

“Haha, you’re hilarious. Asshole.” Stiles snatched the drink from his hand and popped the tab. He’d migrated from cookies to Coke for his magic deficiency. Really, anything with sugar worked, but he’d been getting tired of cookies. He was sure he’d move on to cakes or something before long, but for now Coke was tiding him over. 

Even if the caffeine would have him up all fucking night, now. 

Derek got the light and lay down beside Stiles on his back with a groan, throwing one arm over his eyes and letting out a long, drawn-out sigh. Stiles paused in taking his next sip, grinned, then switched hands so he could place his cold one against Derek’s chest. 

The Werewolf jumped and hissed, smacking at Stiles’ hand and lifting his arm to glare at him. Or, he assumed he was glaring, it was hard to tell in the dark. 

“Get what you give,” Stiles teased, then laughed and downed the rest of his drink, setting the empty can on the nightstand. He fell onto his back beside Derek and turned to look at him. He could really only see his silhouette, but the angle of his profile made it clear Derek was looking at him, too. 

“I want to be done with this,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t want to keep worrying about everything. I wish I could just do everything, know it, be done.” 

Derek rolled onto his side and patted Stiles’ shoulder lightly. “Soon,” his pat said. “You’ll get there soon.” 

“I know, but I’ve known what I am since, what, June? And I’m only three magics down. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be thirty by the time I’m actually fully trained up.” He winced when Derek flicked him in the forehead. 

He knew what Derek meant. Sure, it would take him a long time, but he really only had to get the main seven down. All the others were easier once he had a handle on the seven, because all other magic was like a branch off one of the main ones. 

Hell, even Sorcerer magic was technically a branch off Wizard magic, in its own right. And in a way, so was Alchemy. Really, once he was decent at the seven, he could do the rest of them. 

He’d already asked Deaton to get him started the day after next on Druid magic, because having four under his belt by the end of February would be amazing. He knew Derek wasn’t thrilled about Druid magic, but Stiles attributed that more to what had happened with Jennifer. He figured Derek could just hang out in the loft while Stiles worked with Deaton downstairs, or even in the clinic. 

Deaton was in town, and had a job—not that the others who’d trained Stiles didn’t, but Deaton was literally the only vet in town, which was _insane_ , but true. It meant he couldn’t devote his entire days to Stiles, so he would be coming by during evenings and weekends instead. 

Stiles had already read a few Druid books, and spent the entire following day reading another one so that when his training started with Deaton, he was ahead of the game. 

Surprisingly, he really liked Druid magic. It was less draining than Witch or Wizard magic, but had a lot of the same outcomes, except with potions and powders instead. It was all very technical and mathematical, and Stiles found it really interesting. 

And Deaton was definitely a Dumbledore, which was both awesome and frustrating. 

One thing he liked about his teaching style though was that he let Stiles make his own mistakes. If he noticed him doing something wrong, he didn’t correct him unless it would be dangerous not to. He just let him make his error, then helped Stiles work his way backwards until he figured out what he’d done wrong. 

He didn’t know why, but he really liked that manner of teaching, and it was making the small sessions they had together seem like entire days instead. It worked well for him, and he was mixing items on his own before long, with Deaton only around to supervise when he was doing dangerous things. 

Derek wasn’t allowed inside the clinic on the days where Deaton was teaching Stiles how to create wolfsbane bombs, because evidently, Stiles didn’t want to hurt or kill Derek. He’d been forced to sit outside, and while he’d been put out about it, Stiles had caught a really great picture of him with his phone when he’d gone to check on him, because Derek had been sitting on the hood of the Camaro with his guitar, eyes closed and concentrating on what he was attempting to play. 

The day Stiles had moved into hallucinogens, Derek was allowed to be around, but Stiles noticed him standing particularly far away when Deaton was teaching him about the same powder that had made Derek lose his shit and attack him. He understood the concern, but Deaton was very careful whenever they worked with anything dangerous, and Stiles always made sure to fully memorize those ingredients and instructions before he started working on them. 

He ended up excelling at Druid magic, which kind of irked him because he’d have preferred to excel at a magic far from home so he could come back early. As it was, Deaton said he was good to go by the beginning of the third week of February, and of course Peter found out and immediately started looking for another teacher for him. 

Derek was tapping his fingers against the steering wheel while Stiles sulked and he batted an impatient hand at him. 

“I know, I know, I know. Four down is a good thing, I was just hoping we could stick around for a bit longer.” He looked at Derek. “Don’t you get tired or having to leave all the time?” 

Derek jerked his chin at Stiles, eyes still on the road. “I’m fine if I’m with you,” it said. 

“Sap,” Stiles muttered, but he still smiled to himself. He didn’t _hate_ going to the cabin, he just hated how cold it was. And he wanted time off every now and then. He wanted to be normal and read real books. He still hadn’t finished _Treasure Island_ , and he’d started reading that in fucking _October_. They were now mid-February, Stiles was _not_ that slow of a reader. 

By the time the last week of February rolled around, Stiles got a text message from Peter about his next teacher. 

**[Peter]**  
Mage by the name of Ennis will meet you in Wyoming on March 3rd  
**[Peter]**  
Feel free to drive up whenever is convenient  
**[Peter]**  
Just let me know before you leave 

Stiles and Derek had been eating lunch when it came through, so Stiles just turned the phone to show Derek while he chewed on his pasta. Derek frowned at the words, looking confused, and took the phone from him. Stiles waited while Derek scrolled, and then turned the phone back, having stopped on Satomi’s name.

She’d given Stiles her number and email back when they’d been training together, and they’d been texting on and off every now and then. She’d invited them both to visit whenever they wanted, but Stiles knew Derek still wasn’t interested in straying that far away, no matter how much they both trusted her. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, taking his phone back. He went back up to Peter’s message and typed out a reply. 

**[Stiles]**  
is that the mage Satomi asked about for help when I was going all shadowy? 

Talking about shadows always made his stomach clench, thinking back to his Void self, but he forced the feeling down. He’d been doing really well of late and was hoping he’d buried that fucker down deep once more, never to be seen or heard from again. 

**[Peter]**  
No, Ennis is someone else  
**[Peter]**  
Satomi didn’t want you to train with her acquaintance

**[Stiles]**  
why not? 

**[Peter]**  
She said she didn’t trust them to keep your secret if it got out 

Stiles stared at the message for a few seconds, then turned it to show Derek. He read it, frowned, then shrugged. Stiles sent back a thumbs up to Peter before putting his phone away. 

“Guess it’s back to Wyoming in a few days,” he muttered with a sigh. 

Derek looked amused.

Stiles wasn’t impressed. 

* * *

“I swear to God, I am going to murder Peter for not letting me do this during the summer,” Stiles muttered, jumping up and down while hugging himself. The wind was particularly biting at the moment, and he just hoped that by the end of March, spring would finally mellow the temperature out so that Stiles didn’t risk losing any toes. 

Derek glanced over at him, hands in his pockets, guitar strapped across his back and eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah, yeah, less people, I know. Shut up.” 

Derek smirked when he looked away, and it occurred to Stiles how much Derek liked it when he told him to shut up. Stiles stared at him for a long while, and he honestly wondered what Derek sounded like. Sure, he’d heard him laugh, and groan, and—unfortunately—scream in pain. But that didn’t really give him an accurate picture of what Derek honestly _sounded_ like. 

He wondered if his voice was really deep. Or maybe it was ridiculously high and Stiles would fall over laughing at the way it came out of that ruggedly handsome face. 

Sadly, he hadn’t made much progress in his studies on reversing the spell. Granted, he was limited time-wise, but he usually always set aside an hour or so a day to look into something for Derek. He and Peter also swapped notes via text every now and then, and sometimes Stiles would pick up a book that he’d grabbed from the vault and find Peter’s neat scrawl in it.

He knew Satomi was adamant that it couldn’t be broken via magic without Kate herself undoing it, but Stiles wasn’t willing to give up hope on it. He was going to master being a Spark, avoid turning into a Void, and he was going to break this curse. He _would_ hear Derek speak before he died, that was something Stiles was _not_ willing to compromise on. Before Stiles was buried in the cemetery in town beside his parents, he was going to hear Derek speak. He didn’t care _what_ it was. He didn’t care if it was Derek grunting about Stiles smelling bad, or that he kicked when he slept, or that his hair was stupid. He did _not_ care. 

He just wanted to hear his voice. Just once. 

“You must be Paul.” 

Stiles turned then, Derek not having reacted at the other’s approach. Stiles felt intimidated immediately, because the guy walking towards him was built like a fucking house. He was taller than Derek, more _muscled_ than Derek, and was walking with the easy swagger of someone who knew they were the most powerful person in the clearing. 

Something distracted Stiles though, because while this man’s presence demanded attention, he noticed movement a little behind him and his eyes instantly snapped to the other person walking into the clearing. 

He looked barely older than Stiles was, sixteen, _maybe_ seventeen. He was thin and shivering despite the clothes he wore. His dark skin looked sallow and dry, his hair was greasy, and he walked like every step he took caused him physical pain. 

He was staring at Stiles with wide eyes, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Like he’d never seen another teenager before. 

“I’m Ennis.” Stiles’ eyes snapped back to the Mage who’d stopped in front of him. 

A little too close.

Stiles immediately took a step back, finding Derek right in his space, as if he wasn’t happy about how close Ennis had gotten, either. 

“I’m Paul,” Stiles said, because it was easier to stick with the name he’d once given Satomi, and had also given Joseph. They were sticking to their original cover story of Stiles being Peter’s nephew, new to his magic, with a mute best friend who was overly protective. It made life easier than having to come up with a new story every time. 

“Don’t look like much,” Ennis said, giving him a condescending once-over. “Your uncle said you just came into your magic.”

“That’s right.” Stiles crossed his arms defensively, feeling tiny compared to this man. He felt Derek shift behind him, reminding him that he was there, and Stiles’ gaze shunted towards the kid again. “Another student? Peter didn’t say this would be a joint lesson.” 

“Don’t worry about him,” Ennis said, waving a hand dismissively at the kid. “He’s with me. My ward, if you would.” 

The kid made a face behind Ennis’ back and Stiles frowned. Whatever he was, he definitely wasn’t happy about it. Stiles wondered if maybe he was an adopted kid or something. Maybe Ennis was his godfather? Either way, he wasn’t happy to be living with Ennis. 

“This the friend?” Ennis asked, motioning Derek. Stiles focussed back on him and nodded once.

“Yeah, this is Dean.” 

“Real talker.”

“He’s mute,” Stiles said coldly. 

“I know, your uncle said. If he sticks around, he better hope he stays mute. I don’t like being interrupted, and I don’t like slackers.” 

Stiles immediately decided this guy was a Snape. He was an asshole, but he seemed to know what he was doing, considering he turned and held one hand out, and a wooden staff started to form in his hand from the ground up, as if he’d pulled the wood from the roots of the trees around them. 

_It’s just for a month,_ Stiles reminded himself, staring down at his hands. This was a magic he needed to get under control, because this was the one that came out when he got angry or stressed. 

“So, let’s see what you can do, then.” 

Stiles looked up at Ennis, confused. “We’re not—we’re not gonna talk first? About basics, or about what I’ve managed to do or anything?” 

“I’m not interested in talking about your magic, I’d prefer if you showed it to me.” 

Stiles glanced at Derek and jumped when Ennis snapped his fingers in his face. 

“Don’t look at him, look at me. Is he training you? No, he’s not. I am. Stop wasting my time.” 

Even without looking at him, Stiles could feel Derek tensing up, clearly unhappy. But, this was who Peter had found for him, so evidently he was low on options. Joseph might’ve been an asshole to Derek sometimes, but he was at least a kind teacher, if a little all over the place and in it for his own gain. 

Stiles wasn’t sure how he’d fare with someone like Ennis. 

He took a few steps forward when the Mage motioned for him to get on with it and tried to compartmentalize his different kinds of magic. He knew a lot of what he did with his hands—electricity, fire, shadows and all that—were Mage magic, so he worked on that. 

It was harder forcing them out without a trigger, since he’d never consciously used any of them before, but he managed to at least get the electricity out, and his hands heated up with some fire, but that was about it. 

Ennis talked down to him immediately and basically said that a month wasn’t enough time to train someone as lacking in talent as him. Stiles was offended until he looked at Derek, who was laughing to himself. Like he knew something Ennis didn’t.

Which, okay, he did. And Stiles knew that Derek was right, and that he would learn this magic quickly and efficiently, but he still wasn’t happy about being talked down to like he was a fucking child. 

After showing Ennis what he could do, he got to spend the rest of the day with the man showing him a spell, and then barking at Stiles angrily when he couldn’t replicate it right away. It was obvious Ennis was used to people cowering in fear, because he seemed annoyed every time Stiles just got mad and snapped at him. 

Though one thing Stiles _did_ notice was the kid flinching every time Stiles talked back, like he was expecting some form of punishment for his words. He relaxed every time Stiles didn’t get anything more than Ennis snarling at him. 

Stiles wondered if Ennis hit the kid. Maybe Ennis hit everyone, and he couldn’t help but think the silent Werewolf leaning against a tree strumming softly at his guitar was the only reason Stiles himself wasn’t getting hit. 

Ennis might be a Mage, but Derek was a Werewolf. An Alpha Werewolf. While Stiles was sure Ennis was powerful, it seemed even _he_ could recognize he was outmatched, because every now and then when he started getting particularly loud and angry, Derek would strum just a _little_ louder than before and Ennis would scowl and tense before calming down. 

They broke for lunch a few hours later, Derek and Stiles lingering in the clearing with sandwiches like they usually did. Ennis left with the boy, who looked terrified while following after the stomping Mage. Stiles watched them disappear through the trees, chewing thoughtfully, and turned to Derek when the Werewolf nudged him and held out a cup of hot chocolate. 

Even though it’d been in a thermos, it was mostly lukewarm by now, but still appreciated. He drank it down quickly, licking sugar off his lips, and then took a bite of his sandwich, looking over at where the other two had disappeared again. 

“I don’t like him,” Stiles said. 

Derek’s grunt was full agreement. 

They finished their food in silence, Stiles debating what Peter might say if he decided to bail on this guy. He really didn’t think this kind of training was for him, but he also couldn’t help but wonder if this was the only person he could find. After all, Peter had been forced to find someone who knew old Mage magic because of the shadow thing. According to Satomi’s friend, that was rare—because everything about Stiles was rare, yay!—so it was entirely possible that when Peter had put out his feelers for a Mage teacher that he’d specifically been looking for someone who knew about the shadow thing. 

They’d both finished eating and Derek was strumming idly at his guitar again while Stiles thought. Derek was getting good at playing, and while he didn’t know any songs, per se, he could still strum a decent tune. 

Hearing him playing a little more loudly than he had been made him think about earlier and he turned to Derek, frowning slightly. 

“Was he going to hit me?” 

One of Derek’s string snapped and his lips moved in a curse. Stiles saw blood on one of his fingers, but when he sucked on it, it came back smooth and whole. Derek shifted his gaze to look at him and Stiles made a face. 

“I’m gonna take that as a yes.” He turned to scowl out towards where Ennis and the kid had gone. “Why does he think that’s a good way to train someone? Does he honestly think I’ll stick around if he hits me? Or moreover, does he honestly think I’d _let_ him hit me?” 

Derek made a deep, low sound in his throat that sounded particularly menacing. Stiles reached out and patted at his chest blindly, eyes still on the path Ennis had taken. 

“Yes, yes. You’re very scary, thank you for your muscles and red eyes.” 

Derek swatted him across the back of the head, then crouched while fiddling with his guitar. Stiles felt bad he’d made him snap a string, but it wasn’t the first time, and he knew Derek was a pro at changing them out now. He didn’t know if he had anything with him to do that now, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it because the trees shifted and Ennis was back. 

The kid was following behind him, looking subdued and defeated. He didn’t look any different than when he’d left, and he was walking just as carefully as he had been before, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been hit. Stiles decided then and there that he was going to figure out this kid’s deal and get him away from Ennis. 

“Ready to disappoint me some more?” Ennis sneered. 

“Ready to actually be a useful teacher?” Stiles snapped back. “Just get on with it.” 

Ennis looked pissed, but his eyes shot to Derek before he snarled something rude under his breath and motioned a tree he wanted Stiles to hit with fire. 

Worst. Teacher. _Ever_. 

* * *

The kid with Ennis was called Mason Hewitt. He was seventeen years old, from a small town in Massachusetts, and had been with Ennis for almost four years. It was hard getting much information out of him since Ennis never left him alone with Stiles, and while Derek had the opportunity to dig for information when Ennis and Stiles were training, that was difficult to do when he couldn’t speak. 

Derek had started bringing extra sandwiches though, and Stiles always saw him hand them over when Ennis wasn’t paying attention. Mason scarfed them down like he didn’t get to eat very much, and it only reaffirmed that Stiles wanted to get him out of there. He didn’t know what the deal was between them, but he needed answers and he _wanted_ to help him. 

Besides, Ennis was an asshole and a shit teacher, Stiles was learning more from his books than he was from Ennis. The guy sucked at explaining things, and just kept telling Stiles to _concentrate_ to get magic going. 

Stiles could concentrate just fucking _fine_ , thank you! Having someone bark at him about how shit and useless he was at Mage magic was doing nothing for his temper. On a bright note, one of the days where Ennis was being particularly nasty, Stiles accidentally exploded a tree with electricity and had earned his first words of praise since meeting the man. 

Small consolation when the only reason he’d done so well was because Ennis had pissed him off so much he hadn’t been able to control the amount of power he was exerting. Stiles wasn’t exactly looking to explode people, but electrocuting them to incapacitate them seemed like an okay deal. 

When they went home that night, Stiles still fuming angrily, he slammed the door much harder than intended when he walked in and set it on fire. Thankfully Derek was quick at reacting to Stiles’ random bursts of magic by now, because he managed to douse the flames with water from the kitchen sink before any real damage happened. The door was singed, but it was still in one piece. 

“Sorry,” Stiles muttered, falling onto the couch and crossing his arms. “I don’t know if I can handle two and a half more weeks of this guy, Derek. I really don’t.” 

He heard Derek set his guitar down and when he wandered over to the couch, he dropped Stiles’ notebook and pen in his lap, holding the dictionary in his other hand. Stiles obediently opened it to the applicable page, realizing he’d have to buy a new one soon. They still spoke a lot, but Stiles had gotten so good at reading Derek’s expression and mannerisms that they really only used the notebook and dictionary when Derek had something he needed to say that couldn’t be conveyed in any other way. 

Derek opened the dictionary and began flipping back and forth through it while Stiles wrote the words down. He frowned once he was done. 

_he is a nephilim_

Stiles frowned, looking at Derek. “Who, Mason?” 

Derek tapped his fingers once against the dictionary, then opened it again and began flipping through the pages once more. 

_smell familiar took a while to place but lost his wing_

“Lost his wings?” Stiles asked with a frown. “What does that mean?” 

Derek looked like he was going to answer, then paused and instead reached down to tap at Stiles’ pocket where his phone was. Stiles pulled it out and scrolled to Peter’s name. When he showed this to Derek and the Werewolf didn’t react negatively, he hit ‘dial’ and put the phone on speaker. 

_“Hello little Spark.”_

“This teacher is a fucking dick,” he informed him. Not that Peter didn’t know, Stiles had been whining about the guy since they’d arrived. 

_“But very knowledgeable in old Mage magic, so you’re going to have to put up with him a little while longer. If you can handle my nephew, you can handle him.”_

Derek scowled at the phone and Stiles heard Peter laugh, like he knew exactly what kind of expression that had earned him. 

“Much as I enjoy hearing you bash Derek,” Stiles said, ducking the flick that was aimed his way, “I’m calling about the kid. Mason? The one with Ennis? Did you find anything on him?”

_“I’m not a detective, Stiles, and sadly I’ve lost touch with anyone I knew who was willing to break into restricted files behind firewalls,”_ he said cheerfully. 

Stiles took that to mean he was at a dead end and it frustrated him greatly. Peter was good at hiding his annoyance behind a cheerful facade. 

“Okay, well, while you sit on your ass doing God knows what, answer me this: what does it mean if a Nephilim has lost his wings?” 

There was a _long_ silence. 

_“Is that what Mason is?”_

“Derek seems to think so. Sniffed it out all by himself. Good boy!” Stiles went to ruffle his hair and got punched in the arm for it. “Ow! Jesus! Werewolf strength!” 

The look he got made it clear there was more where that came from if he ever called him a ‘good boy’ ever again. Stiles figured he’d erect a shield before trying that again. 

_“Much as I love listening to you two flirt, we should focus. You said he’s a Nephilim?”_

“Again: Derek seems to think so. Said something about him losing his wings. What does that mean?” 

_“Nephilim are... not rare, but not very common, either. Do you know what they are?”_

“I mean, kind of. They’re the offspring of Angels and humans or something, right? I’m guessing not real Heaven angels, but we have a Hellhound in our pack and I can shoot lightning out of my fingertips, so what do I know?” 

_“Clearly nothing, can we move on?”_ Stiles flipped Peter off, despite knowing it was lost on him. _“You’re correct that they’re the offspring of humans and Angels, but Angels are not what everyone thinks they are. They’re Supernatural beings, the same as the rest of us. Keep to themselves mostly, stay away from humans. Those who don’t and have offspring are usually sentenced to death when discovered. They don’t punish the children, because it isn’t their fault, but the Angel who conceived it is put to death because they don’t believe in the mixing of blood. They don’t like their powers being in the hands of men.”_

“Okay, so Mason’s the kid of a human and an Angel. He doesn’t look anything like Ennis, and he said he’s been with him for four years, so I’m going to assume that isn’t his dad.” 

_“Likely not. Nephilim are very powerful batteries for people with a penchant for magic. As you know, magic deficiency is very common. It affects you less because you’re a Spark, but depending on the type of magic people use, a Nephilim is a good source of power for a recharge. The only way to hold a Nephilim, keep it under your control, is to take its wings.”_

“And how do you do that?” Stiles asked uncertainly. “Do you like... are they cut off, or...?” 

_“No. They’re not physical wings, they can’t be taken, they have to be **given**. If this Mason grew up without a firm understanding of what he is, he likely didn’t realize what he was doing when he gave Ennis his wings. And as long as Ennis has them, he can control the Nephilim. Use him as he sees fit for whatever he likes, and the Nephilim cannot disobey him. I would imagine he has trouble walking.”_

“Yeah.” Stiles frowned. “Is that because of his wings, too?”

_“It is, yes. Their wings are a source of power on their own, and while Nephilim don’t fly, they don’t actually walk, either. They more... float. It’s not obvious, but they’re never fully touching the ground. As soon as they lose their wings, the full weight of their being is on their feet, which they’re not used to. I would imagine it’s extremely painful for him.”_

“Can’t Mason just take his wings back? Like, I’m sure Ennis sleeps.” 

_“Nephilim cannot take them back, no. They can request them back, but the other party has to willingly give them up.”_

That explained why Mason was still with an asshole like Ennis, at least. 

“So how do I get his wings back?” Stiles asked. “If they’re not physical, how do you give that away to begin with?” 

_“You can’t steal wings from a Nephilim, but you **can** from someone else. If you can steal his wings from Ennis, you can give them back to him. I don’t imagine Ennis will be very happy if you did that, so I would recommend perhaps waiting until closer to the end of your training.”_

“Still haven’t told me what his wings are,” Stiles insisted. “What even am I looking for?” 

_“It’s different for all Nephilim. Their wings are linked to something that they’ve put a part of themselves into. Talia used to know a Nephilim whose wings were in their wedding ring. There are Nephilim out there who are smart enough to put their wings into something no one can take, like a tattoo, or a scar.”_

“So basically, it can be anything.” Stiles didn’t really understand this whole ‘wings’ thing, but he supposed the closest understanding he had was that the wings were linked to something that was important to the Nephilim. He supposed it couldn’t be a physical person, but something like jewellery or even a tattoo could have significant importance.

He figured for Derek maybe it would be his guitar. Stiles felt like for him it would... honestly, it would be the key to the loft. The one place he’d ever felt like he could call home, where he felt safe. Something that was important to him. 

_“You have just under three weeks to figure it out,”_ Peter said cheerfully. _“Better get to it. Oh, and Stiles?”_

He grunted to show he was still listening, but his mind was on everything he could think about related to Ennis. 

_“Do ensure he doesn’t find out what you are. If he has a Nephilim with him, I would imagine he likes rare and valuable things. Derek can hold his own, but if he makes the boy attack him, a Werewolf can’t hold out against a Nephilim, even a weakened one.”_

“You keep sending me places that are exceptionally dangerous, you realize that, right?” 

_“Stop doing things that make me regret not sending backup with you, then.”_

Stiles rolled his eyes, muttered a farewell and hung up. He tapped his phone against his lips in thought, feeling Derek’s eyes on him. He tried to think about anything he saw Ennis always had on him, but imagined if _he_ were an asshole Mage with a trapped Nephilim, he wasn’t going to make it obvious. 

At least not publicly. Probably in private, where he could taunt Mason with it. Remind him who was in charge at all times and make sure he stayed in line. 

But Stiles couldn’t _be_ there when they were alone, because if he was there, then they weren’t—

Stiles sat up straight, eyes widening, and turned to Derek. “You are going to hate this idea very, _very_ much.” 

Derek made a face that suggested he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Stiles was absolutely right. 

* * *

“Okay look, I told you that you could come along if you stayed _quiet_ ,” Stiles hissed at Derek. 

The Werewolf gave him an annoyed look—in his general direction anyway—and motioned the forest floor where Stiles had just walked through a bush. Evidently, the one making noise was him, _not_ Derek. Made sense, Derek was a Werewolf. A predator. He knew how to be quiet. He just tended not to be so he didn’t startle Stiles. 

Letting out a slow breath, Stiles turned back to follow the glowing shimmer in the air, heading towards where Ennis and Mason had their cabin. He’d never been good at the tracking spell Satomi had taught him, but he’d been practising it with Derek over the past two weeks so that they could follow Ennis and Mason back to their cabin after dark. 

Peter was paying for the cabin, but Ennis hadn’t let him actually book it. He was as private as Peter was, presumably because he, like Peter, had something to hide. Peter was hiding a Spark, and Ennis was hiding a Nephilim. 

It was crazy when Stiles thought about how many uncommon to rare Supernatural creatures he’d discovered since joining the Hale pack. Schools didn’t teach about things like this, and a part of him wondered if it was for their own safety. After all, Deaton had referenced Collectors before, and Stiles himself was sought after by multiple unfriendly parties, including the fucking _government_. 

Made sense schools wouldn’t want to draw attention to them, but then again, not talking about them at all made it easier for people like Ennis to manipulate them. Mason was young, and if he was seventeen now, it meant he’d given his wings up when he was thirteen. If he’d learned about what he was in school, it was entirely possible he would’ve realized what Ennis was trying to do and wouldn’t have let him take control like he had. 

Stiles cursed when he tripped over something. He felt Derek’s hand reach for him, but given he was invisible, he missed and Stiles hit the dirt. The sigh he got in response made him feel like a clumsy idiot and like Derek wished he could just do this on his own. 

“We don’t all have night vision, okay!” Stiles hissed at him. “Shut up, stop judging me.” 

Derek just let out another sigh and Stiles flipped him off, even though he knew Derek couldn’t see him. At least Derek could follow him more easily, though Stiles had been banking on him doing that by scent as opposed to sound. 

It seemed to take them an eternity to come out of the woods and into a small area hidden from the road. The outside lights were off, but the cabin was still bright. Stiles knew they’d left their own cabin around nine, so he figured it had to be about quarter after. 

He snuck silently up to a window, Derek following easily since there was still some snow on the ground and he could hear and see the crunch of Stiles’ shoes against it. Stiles was crouched in front of the window, even though he was invisible. It was instinctive to crouch. 

The curtains were drawn, which made it hard to see, but he thought Mason was at the kitchen sink doing dishes. Ennis seemed to be pacing, cursing and staring down at something. Stiles couldn’t tell what it was, and he’d need a better look anyway to figure out what his wings were. 

“Okay, I’m going in,” Stiles said quietly, turning to Derek. “Stay here. I mean it. If I need you, I’ll—scream, or something.” 

Derek gave him an incredulous look that clearly said, “What the fuck, seriously?!” 

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles insisted, flapping one hand dismissively. He kept forgetting Derek couldn’t see him. “Just stay hidden, okay? I’ll be in and out, no funny stuff, promise.” 

It was obvious Derek _still_ didn’t like this plan, but he made emphatic jabbing motions that said, “If you get hurt, I’ll fucking kill you,” and then turned to hide in the trees. Stiles watched him go so he’d know where he was, then let out a slow breath and inched towards the front of the cabin. 

He winced when the porch steps creaked, but he figured Ennis would think it was the wind or something. As long as Stiles stayed invisible, he was fine. 

Moving up to the front door, he tried the handle quietly, and found it locked. Not surprising, but annoying. Unlocking doors was something he still kind of had trouble with, because it was different between Witch and Warlock magic. He’d learned Witch magic with Satomi, but because he wasn’t a Witch, his magics got confused sometimes and made his life difficult. And Witch magic didn’t unlock _all_ doors, which was why Derek and Peter had installed so many at home. Malicious people would need both a Witch _and_ a Warlock to unlock all the different types they had. 

It was stupid to think there was a limitation like that, but Stiles tried not to razz on the magic too much given those locks kept him safe. 

Letting out a slow breath, he reminded himself why he was doing this, and pressed his hand to the lock. It took him almost five minutes to get it open, and he was positive Derek was going to think something had gone wrong and barrel up to the door. Thankfully he stayed put where he was at the side of the house and Stiles smiled when he heard the lock click. 

“Okay,” he said quietly. He let out a harsh breath, turned the knob, and then smirked at Ennis being his own downfall since he used his Mage magic to slam wind into the door, making it fly open. 

Mason jumped at the sink and Ennis cursed angrily from where he was by the couch, turning to glare at the door. 

“Can’t you even lock a door properly?” Ennis barked. He flicked his hand and Stiles saw Mason recoil when water from the dishes flew into his face, Ennis evidently controlling it. “Close the fucking door!” 

Mason wiped at his face with his sleeve while turning, starting to head for the door, and froze, eyes locked on Stiles. 

Stiles’ heart hit his feet and he quickly looked down at his hands. 

They were still invisible.

He looked back up at Mason, who was still staring right at him. 

“Are you deaf?” Ennis demanded angrily, curling one hand into a fist and wrenching it towards himself. Another stream of water flew from the sink and hit Mason across the back of the head. “Get the fucking door!” 

Mason turned to look at Ennis, then at Stiles, and very slowly walked towards the door. Stiles could feel his heart pounding where he stood just inside it, but Mason approached him without a word, glanced just once at Ennis to see what he was making of this, and then grabbed the door, pushing it shut and locking it. 

Ennis snarled something vicious and went back to pacing. Mason was still beside the door, staring at his master before slowly looking at Stiles again. 

Stiles brought one hand to his lips, pressing his index finger against them, heart slamming against his ribs. Because Mason could see him. 

_Mason could **see** him!_

It seemed to take an eternity for Mason to tear his eyes away, and Stiles could imagine how confused he was. He just hoped Mason didn’t say anything. Derek was always really nice to him during the day while Stiles was training with Ennis, and while Stiles himself didn’t really have the opportunity to speak to him, he liked to think Mason realized he was a good person, too. 

Which he was, clearly. He was here to help. Even if he couldn’t tell Mason that. 

Mason went back to the sink after casting one last glance at Ennis and started back up on the dishes. Stiles moved silently through the large space, keeping close to the wall since he didn’t want Ennis to walk right into him. He looked agitated, and annoyed. He was pacing back and forth in front of the couch, and Stiles saw that what he was staring at was his phone. 

Evidently, he was waiting on a phonecall. 

Stiles crouched in one of the corners, keeping his hands in front of himself so he’d know if he suddenly went visible again. The silence in the cabin reminded him a bit of what it was like in his own with Derek before he’d gotten the guitar, except less comfortable. 

The silence with Derek was because they were usually both reading, but it was relaxed. They were together on the couch, or sitting at the counter, or Derek was cooking while Stiles was studying magic. It was... nice. It was comforting. 

This was the complete opposite. It was tension and fear and anger. It was Mason trying to make himself silent and small while doing the dishes, and Ennis practically oozing aggression and power. Like he could silently remind Mason of his place with just his presence alone. 

When the phone buzzed, Mason paused in what he was doing, and when he turned to look right at Stiles, he understood why. 

Because Ennis answered the phone with, “Well? Am I right or what? That kid’s _definitely_ something, and a Mage ain’t it.” 

Uh oh. He sure hoped Derek couldn’t hear Ennis right now because he was going to fucking storm the place. 

Stiles wished he could hear the other side of the conversation, but all he had to go on was Ennis’ side. 

“You think I’m an idiot? Of course he doesn’t know. Kid’s learning my magic like nothing else and, get this, he can shadow travel. Nobody can fucking shadow travel anymore, it’s old magic. People have heard of it, and I can start it, but I can’t _do_ it.” Ennis held his hand up and Stiles saw dark tendrils sliding down his fingers and along his arms. He was staring exceptionally hard at his own hand, but Stiles noticed that the tendrils didn’t go up past his elbows, even though Ennis’ face turned red and he was obviously straining. 

After a few seconds, he let out a harsh exhale and his hand returned to normal, the man shaking it out angrily and continuing to pace. 

“I don’t know, but something ain’t right with him. And his Werewolf friend? That isn’t ‘protective,’ that’s downright _paid_ protection. He’s a bodyguard or some shit, definitely here to make sure Paul stays safe.” 

The hilarity of Derek being paid to protect him was almost too much for Stiles. He would _never_ be able to repay Derek for everything he’d done for him, but at this point, even Stiles knew it was more than just the oath. Derek cared about him as a person, as much as Stiles cared for him. They were _both_ protective, at this point, and Derek _definitely_ wasn’t getting paid for it. 

“You hear them too?” Ennis asked, lowering his voice. “Yeah, Virginia.” 

Stiles’ breath froze in his lungs at that one word. Because Virginia was a very dangerous word, considering that was where Deucalion had found him and his father and had killed him before Stiles was taken by Derek. 

“I don’t know, but if this kid’s the Spark, I’ve just landed on a goldmine.” 

Oh no. He _really_ hoped Derek couldn’t hear him, because he was probably chewing through his own arm in an attempt to stay put. 

“How?” Ennis asked. Silence for a moment, then he hummed. “Maybe. Don’t think a Nephilim can take a Spark, but he’s probably got some juice in him to at least identify him.” Ennis turned to Mason, who was resolutely staring into the sink, finishing with the dishes. “Guess we’ll find out. Send some guys down. If he _is_ the Spark, no way am I letting him slip through my fingers.” 

Ennis hung up and reached into his pocket. He let out a high-pitched whistle that had Mason tense, but he obediently turned off the tap and glanced over his shoulder. 

“I need a favour, Angel,” Ennis said, and he held up what looked like a gold chain with... Stiles felt like they must be earrings of some kind. White stone studs that were attached to the chain, like it was easier to keep track of them. 

Stiles straightened instantly, knowing it was a bit much to hope for, but considering this was what Ennis was holding up, he was willing to bet those were Mason’s wings. 

Man, Nephilim were kind of weird. Wings could be earrings? 

Then again, Stiles could turn into a shadow and explode trees, so he wasn’t one to talk. 

Mason’s gaze shifted in Stiles’ direction for the briefest of moments before he moved around the counter and walked up to the couch, standing behind it so it was between him and Ennis. The Mage was still holding the gold chain up, a pleased look on his face. Stiles wanted to punch that smug look right off it. 

“I doubt you can take a Spark if that’s what he is, but why don’t we find out if he’s actually valuable, shall we? He likely doesn’t hide what he is at home with his mute freak, so we just need to go find him, don’t we? Take me to Paul.” 

Mason’s entire body jerked, shifting in Stiles’ direction where he was crouched on the floor in the corner. Stiles saw the teen’s hands grip the back of the couch, clenching tightly. His eyes were wide and horrified and it was very clear that it was physically hurting him to stay where he was. 

His eyes shot back to Stiles again, a pleading look in them. Like he was begging Stiles to run, to get out, while he still could. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” Ennis snapped, waving what he was holding insistently. “I said take me to Paul. _Now_.”

Mason let out a grunt and physically took a step in Stiles’ direction before he grit his teeth and clenched his eyes shut, holding the back of the couch so hard his hands were turning white. 

“Please,” Mason forced out. “Please, I can’t...” 

Stiles thought he was speaking to Ennis at first, but when he opened his eyes and looked right at him, he realized Mason was speaking to _him_. 

“Please. I can’t disobey.” 

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Ennis demanded, turning to glance at where Stiles was still crouched by the wall, invisible to everyone except a Nephilim, apparently. 

Mason let out another grunt and took another step closer to Stiles, and the look on his face was wrecked. Like he didn’t want Stiles to go through what he had. Like he actually cared about Stiles, and wanted him to stay safe, even though he had no idea who he really was. He just didn’t want anyone else to be hurt the way he’d been. 

_Fuck, Derek’s gonna kill me,_ Stiles thought with a wince, getting to his feet. He let out a harsh breath, held up both hands, and kissed his survival instincts goodbye. 

“Derek, don’t get mad!” Stiles shouted. 

Ennis had a split second to look startled before Stiles pulled up all the rage he had in him and slammed magic into the Mage. It was Warlock magic, which was what he’d been aiming for, because he _definitely_ didn’t want to explode Ennis. He _did_ fly through two walls though, which Stiles might’ve felt bad about if he hadn’t seen the way Ennis treated Mason over the past few weeks. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Stiles said while bolting for the downed Mage, turning visible again. “Shit, bad idea, bad idea.” He hastily started digging through the debris until he found the gold chain, still clutched in Ennis’ hand. The man groaned while Stiles pried his fingers open.

“Gotta go!” Stiles turned to Mason, who was standing frozen behind the couch. 

He didn’t give him time to react, he just raced past him, grabbing his wrist on the way by, and flew for the door. He got it open just as Derek was about to slam right through it. 

He looked _livid_. Just... so, _so_ pissed. Like he wanted to bite Stiles’ entire face off. 

“Yup, be mad later,” Stiles insisted, rushing past him while still pulling Mason along. “Run now. Very quickly.” 

He didn’t need to see Derek to know he was cursing up a storm in his head, but when Stiles raced for the forest, the Werewolf deked off in another direction. Stiles spared a glance over his shoulder just long enough to see claws as Derek slashed downward, tearing through the tires of Ennis’ car. 

That was smart. Derek was very smart. Unlike Stiles, who was apparently very stupid. 

He really hoped Ennis was down for the count for a while. He should be, after going through two walls. He wasn’t a Werewolf, after all, so he’d need time to recover. Besides, Stiles didn’t think the people coming as backup would arrive any time soon. 

While Peter’s advice with Satomi had been smart, given leaving immediately would’ve proven they had something to hide and would make them easier to find, this situation seemed a little more dire. Stiles felt like leaving was _definitely_ the best course of action. 

He and Mason stumbled their way through the woods, Stiles following the tracking spell backwards towards the clearing. Derek caught up with them in no time, and he was snarling and snapping angrily beside Stiles, flashing red eyes and occasionally pulling at his arm to avoid Stiles running into something in the dark. 

“I know, I know!” Stiles insisted. “But what was I supposed to do?! Shut up, let’s just get out of here!” 

Stiles felt infinitely bad about Mason, because he could hear how much pain he was in while tugging him along, but he’d apologize later. Right now, they needed to get back to the cabin so they could book it out of there. 

It seemed to take an eternity to make it back, but Stiles knew they’d made good time. Ten minutes, maybe, given how hard his heart was pounding in his chest. Man, he was out of shape. He needed to work out more. Learning magic did _not_ mean he’d never have to run away. 

Derek slammed through the cabin door furiously, storming into the bedroom and beginning to pack away their things at the speed of fucking light. 

Stiles was still panting when they got into the place, but he didn’t bother closing the door since he and Derek would be moving stuff back and forth. He shoved Mason towards the couch so he could sit down, then leaned one hand against the wall and closed his eyes. 

It was hard to concentrate on a spell while his lungs were on fire, but he very quickly erected the largest perimeter spell he could, and then threw in a protective barrier while he was at it so that nothing could physically approach the cabin or Camaro. 

Derek rushed past him just as Stiles opened his eyes. He was still snapping his teeth angrily, his face distorted and more animal than man in that moment. Stiles just flailed his arms helplessly at him, wishing he’d stop with the complaining. It was helping no one! 

When he turned to grab Derek’s guitar, since he didn’t want that accidentally getting left behind—he doubted it would, but still—he caught sight of Mason. He was still sitting on the couch, looking both relieved and shocked at the same time. That was when Stiles remembered he was still holding his wings. 

“Shit, right.” He hurried over to Mason and held the gold chain out to him, the studs thankfully still firmly in place. “Sorry, here. We were kind of in a hurry before.” 

Mason looked up at his face, then at the studs, then back at his face. He didn’t move, and Stiles felt his stomach hit his feet because why wasn’t he moving to take them? 

“Oh God, _please_ don’t tell me these aren’t your wings, Derek is _not_ gonna let me go back and find them!” 

Mason let out a small, sharp exhale, then reached up with one hand. It was shaking so badly Stiles wasn’t sure he’d be able to grab at the studs on the chain, but he eventually closed his hand around them and Stiles let go. 

The change was instantaneous, and very noticeable. Mason’s skin seemed to clear up slightly, he straightened where he was sitting, and the haunted look in his eyes disappeared. It was like a super freaky before and after picture effect except instantaneous and Stiles let out a relieved sigh at the fact that he _hadn’t_ fucked up. 

Seriously, Derek would _not_ have let him go back. 

Stiles opened his mouth to tell Mason he could run, or come with them, or do whatever, but before he even managed to get a word out, the Nephilim launched himself off the couch so fast Stiles thought he was being attacked. Turned out he was just being hugged, Mason wrapping his arms around him so tightly it was kind of constricting his breathing. 

Kid was strong for someone who clearly hadn’t had enough to eat the past four years. Probably the Angel in him. 

“Thank you,” Mason said shakily against Stiles’ shoulder, his entire frame trembling. “Thank you, _thank you_!” 

Derek passed by then, giving Stiles an incredulous look, like, “Really?! Right now?!” 

“Yeah.” Stiles patted Mason’s back a few times. “Cool. Run now, hug later.” 

Mason cleared his throat and pulled away. Stiles saw him wiping at his face when he pulled back but didn’t comment on it. He just went for the guitar so he could bring it out to the car. When he came back inside, Mason had just finished putting his earrings back on and he asked Stiles what he wanted him to do. Stiles motioned the kitchen and told him there were bags under the sink and the kid got to work cleaning out the fridge and cupboards. 

They got everything in the Camaro in under fifteen minutes, Derek locking up the cabin before climbing behind the wheel. He slammed the door so hard the car rocked violently. Stiles just hunkered down in the passenger seat. Mason said nothing in the back, the guitar on the seat beside him. 

Derek was still growling, something low and dangerous in the back of his throat, but he started the car and pulled out of their space before gunning it down the road towards the exit. 

Stiles slammed hard into his door when Derek took a turn a _little_ too fast. 

“Hey, hey, Speedy Gonzales!” Stiles smacked Derek hard in the arm. “Maybe don’t make it so obvious that we’re running away? We’re just a bunch of bros leaving the woods in the middle of the night because we wanted like, McDonald’s or something, I don’t know. Just chill out.” 

Derek turned a livid look on him that clearly said, “ _You_ chill out!” but he at least slowed down so he wasn’t going thirty over the limit. 

Stiles threw his hands up. “What was I _supposed_ to do, Derek?! He already thought I was _something_ and he _literally_ called me a Spark while I was sitting like, two feet away from him! He had guys coming, it’s not like I could’ve just pretended nothing was wrong. And the whole point was to get Mason his wings back!” He motioned the back seat emphatically. “Wings! Nephilim with wings! It worked out! No one got hurt except for Ennis, and fuck that guy!” 

Derek turned to snarl at him again, look saying, “ _You_ could’ve gotten hurt!” 

“Could’ve!” Stiles threw his arms up again, hitting the ceiling of the car and wincing when he hurt his hand. “Didn’t! Look, this worked out _really_ well, considering. I mean, we got a heads up! We left _before_ shit hit the fan! He had backup coming, dude! Peter said you couldn’t take a Nephilim, and I might have five magics under my belt now, but I’m still not great at them!” 

Derek was still pissed as shit, and Stiles spent the better part of ten minutes arguing with him. He was still in his Beta shift, and he wouldn’t stop snapping and growling, like some kind of rabid animal. It was actually starting to really annoy Stiles. 

He understood why he was so mad, of _course_ he did, but it had worked out! Ennis already _knew_ Stiles was the Spark, he seemed almost convinced even before telling Mason to bring him to him. If they’d stuck around any longer, Ennis would’ve had backup with him and Stiles and Derek would’ve been severely outmatched. It wasn’t like they could take on a bunch of Mages and a Nephilim on their own. Maybe if Stiles was better at his magic, sure, but not right _now_! 

They sat in silence for a long, tense half hour. Mason was absolutely silent in the back, like he was scared to even breathe. Stiles just glared out his window, annoyed Derek was pissed about him making the literal _only_ choice he had. Derek was still breathing angrily beside him, clearly unwilling to let this go. 

“I’d do it again,” Stiles said stubbornly, still glaring out his window. “I would do it _again_.” 

He almost hit his head against the glass when Derek pulled off the road abruptly. Mason let out a startled and half-terrified sound in the back, and Stiles turned to Derek when he slammed the car into park. He opened his mouth to snap at him, figuring they were still fighting, and froze when the Werewolf reached over, grabbed the back of Stiles’ neck, and wrenched him into his chest. His other arm went around Stiles’ back, crushing him tightly against him. 

It wasn’t exactly the most comfortable position, but Stiles was too stunned to complain about it, because Derek was holding him so tightly, and even though he was breathing angrily against his skin, he was also shaking.

And that was when Stiles clued in. 

Derek was mad, of course he was. He was fucking _livid_ , the likes of which Stiles had never seen before.

But more than that, he was _scared_. He was so angry because he’d been terrified something was going to happen to Stiles, and he didn’t know how to express that, so he just got mad instead. Mad that Stiles had taken such a huge risk. Mad that Stiles cared more about Mason than himself. Mad that Stiles didn’t realize how much he _mattered_ to him. 

He felt his chest clench at the realization and he reached up to hug Derek back, letting out a long sigh with his cheek against Derek’s shoulder. 

“I’m right here, big guy. I’m okay. You’re stuck with me, remember? I’m not going anywhere.” 

Derek tightened his grip slightly, and then pulled away. Stiles leaned back and watched Derek rub at his nose once, clear his throat, and then shift back into drive. He still looked angry, but less than he had when he’d jerked the car off the road. 

Stiles sighed and raked one hand through his hair, leaning back in his seat and putting one foot up on the dash. When he glanced in the side mirror, he saw Mason looking a little scared, and it occurred to him that Derek was likely sending bad signals right now. 

Sure, he was pissed, but Derek would _never_ hurt him. Mason had just been living with an abusive Mage for four years, and seeing Derek snarling and jerking the car onto the side of the road like he had probably took ten years off Mason’s lifespan. 

Stiles shifted in his seat so he could turn around, offering Mason a small smile. He still looked scared, eyes wide and sitting perfectly still, but Stiles knew it’d take a while for him to stop being afraid of people. 

“Don’t worry about Derek. He’s scary-looking, but inside, he’s like a giant marshmallow.” 

Derek turned to give him an annoyed look at that, but Stiles just grinned at him, slapped him in the arm lightly, and focussed back on Mason. 

“I’m Stiles, by the way. Since, you know, not actually named Paul. And he’s Derek, obviously. Sorry we kind of—kidnapped you. That wasn’t intentional, we just wanted to get you your wings back and things sort of... well, sorry.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. Damn, they really _had_ kind of kidnapped him. Whoops. “Is there, uh—can we take you somewhere? To a police station? Where are your parents?” 

It took a little while to convince Mason he could actually _speak_ without getting hurt for it. He seemed to find comfort in the fact that he had his wings back, because he kept reaching up to touch one of his ears before answering any questions, like he was reassuring himself this wasn’t a dream and he was actually free again. 

As it turned out, Mason’s father was an Angel and his mother had died during childbirth. He’d been in foster care his entire life until a chance encounter with Ennis four years ago. Apparently Mason only had a vague understanding of what he was, and Ennis had manipulated him into thinking he was a good person and could teach him what he needed to know about being a Nephilim. 

Mason’s earrings had belonged to his mother, and Ennis had ascertained enough about the kid to figure out that was where his wings were. When he’d told Mason it was dangerous to do magic while wearing jewellery—to be fair, the kid was thirteen at the time—he’d taken them off and handed them over, and the second they’d left his hand, he’d known he’d made a mistake.

Four years later and Stiles and Derek showed up. Mason had nowhere to go, and he seemed perfectly happy to stick close to Stiles. His opinion of Derek kept oscillating, because Derek had always been kind to him in the clearing while Stiles and Ennis practised magic, but he also seemed to be a little scared of him given how angry he’d been when they’d left the cabin. 

Stiles figured he’d get there in time with Derek, but for now they had a bigger problem. Mason was still a minor, though he promised he was turning eighteen in just under three months, and that made things very uncomfortable for them. Every time Stiles brought up bringing him to the police station, Mason panicked because apparently Ennis was listed as his legal guardian until he turned eighteen. That meant bringing him there was essentially handing him back over to the man who’d tricked and abused him. He had his wings back, but Stiles was fairly certain Mason wasn’t going to be talking back or disobeying him because he was used to doing as he was told. 

It actually occurred to Stiles that when Mason had been helping them pack, he hadn’t asked what he _could_ do, he’d asked Stiles what he _wanted_ him to do. That made him feel guilty, but he figured it would take time to break that kind of conditioning. 

It also made him realize just how bad things could’ve been for himself if he’d been taken as a child. A Spark with abusive owners would’ve been terrible for the world at large. Stiles wondered if he’d have gone Void at an early age or if he’d have been so convinced life was just like that that he wouldn’t think anything of it. 

Eventually, Stiles glanced at Derek and winced at the, “He’s _your_ problem,” look he got in return. 

“Maybe Peter wants another kid in the house?” he offered. 

Derek’s look said, “You want Mason to suffer _that_ much?!” 

“Okay fair.” Stiles raked a hand through his hair and fell back into his seat. “Really, we just need to keep him somewhere safe until he’s eighteen. Then no one can come for him.” He frowned. “What about Parrish?” 

Derek made a face, but Stiles figured it was more because Parrish was kind of scary when he went all Hellhound. Besides, he was an officer of the law, he would feel compelled to report a minor who’d run away. Even if it just meant putting him into another home rather than with Ennis, but there were ways for that to backfire. 

“What about Noshiko and Ken?” Stiles asked slowly. 

He got a thoughtful look for that, like Derek didn’t think it was a _terrible_ idea, but it still wasn’t a great one. Really, they needed him to hide somewhere until he turned eighteen. Somewhere kind of off the map. Besides, he doubted Mason wanted to stick close to a Spark, that was just asking for trouble. 

When Derek grunted and then reached out to tap Stiles’ pocket, it took him a second to figure out what he meant. Then he realized he was basically saying, “Speaking of Peter.” 

“This isn’t going to go over well,” Stiles said with a sigh, pulling his phone out. He dialled Peter, and while normally he’d put it on speakerphone, Derek could hear just fine and he didn’t want Mason to hear the guy talk. Peter could be a bit of an asshole sometimes. 

_“Hello, little Spark. It’s rather late, any particular reason you’re calling me at one in the morning?”_

“So,” Stiles said, stretching the word out, “remember how I said I wanted to help that Nephilim?”

_“What did you do?”_

“In my defence, Ennis already had _strong_ suspicions about me being the Spark, so really, I got us out of there _before_ shit went wrong. You’re welcome.” 

Peter cursed and Stiles could hear him moving around, like he was climbing out of bed. _“Where are you?”_

“We’ve been driving for a few hours, so I’m not sure, but we’re heading back now.”

_“No,”_ Peter said, voice sharp. Derek cast a glance his way and started slowing down instinctively. 

“No?” Stiles repeated. “Why?”

_“Ennis has my number. I’m going to have to disconnect my phone before he can have someone trace it, but he can look up the area code and narrow things down. If he has friends in high places, he might find out where I live, and just like the CIA, they’ll find the loft. You can’t come back here.”_

Stiles felt his chest clench. “What, _ever_?!” 

_“For a while,”_ Peter said, voice a little softer, like he recognized Stiles was about to panic at losing his home. _“Until you can either fend for yourself, or we can be sure Ennis hasn’t found you. Or has given up.”_

Stiles didn’t like it. At all. He _definitely_ wasn’t happy, but he supposed he could understand. He was just... mad. He’d so been looking forward to going home. Back in the loft, in his own bed, with Derek able to watch YouTube videos and learn how to strum more than just a few chords on the guitar. He wanted to see his friends, wanted to go out to the diner where people looked at him a little less than they used to. 

He wanted to be back in his comfortable space. 

_“Stiles?”_

“I heard you,” he muttered, rubbing at his face with one hand. “Where are we supposed to go? Not like we can just up and move now that the CIA isn’t in my corner. And I know you’ve got money, but like you said, that’s traceable.”

Peter hummed his agreement and went silent, like he was thinking. Stiles waited, wondering how they were going to get through this when Derek tapped his thigh. He turned to look at him and Derek flashed red eyes briefly, gaze shifting from Stiles to the road, back and forth. 

Stiles frowned, shaking his head, because he didn’t understand. Derek rolled his eyes, flashed them red again, and then did a swish-flick motion with one hand, like he was Hermione in _Harry Potter_. 

This time, Stiles _did_ understand. 

“She isn’t going to be happy if we bring my Spark bullshit into her territory,” Stiles said slowly. 

_“Who?”_ Peter asked, making him jump, because he’d forgotten Peter was even on the line.

“Derek says we should ask Satomi.”

Peter hummed again, more in thought than agreement this time. He was silent for a moment, then said, _“Call her. See what she says. If she agrees, problem solved. If not, call me back.”_

“Will do.” Stiles hung up, then stared down at his phone. It was late, but he knew Satomi wouldn’t care about the hour. He just wasn’t sure he was ready to make a call he knew would be rejected. She specifically hadn’t joined the Order because she didn’t want to risk her pack by protecting Stiles. Sure, she was an ally, she taught him magic and all that, but letting him stay with her pack? For an indeterminate amount of time? 

“Who’s Satomi?”

“Jesus shit!” Stiles almost dropped his phone and whipped around. Mason looked startled at the reaction and Stiles just sighed, rubbing at his heart with one hand. “I keep forgetting you’re back there. You’re so quiet.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s fine.” Stiles flapped one hand dismissively. “Satomi is—well, she was my Witch teacher. She knows what I am. Found out kind of by accident.” He glanced back down at his phone. “Not sure she’ll agree to take us in. I’m kind of problematic.” 

“You’re a good person,” Mason insisted. “She’ll take you in.” 

“You have a lot of faith, my friend,” Stiles informed him, then glanced at Derek. The Werewolf shot him a look back, shifting his gaze back and forth between the road and Stiles. 

Sighing in defeat, Stiles opened his contacts and scrolled to her name. He hesitated, took a breath, then hit the call button. He brought it to his ear while it rang, listening to the line crackle for a few seconds. It took three rings for her to answer, which made sense, given the hour. 

_“Stiles. Are you all right?”_

“Hey,” he said slowly, cautiously. “So, uh, remember when you said I could visit?” He winced, because even his words made it clear he was in trouble. 

_“What happened?”_ Her voice took on a more severe note, and she was _definitely_ a McGonnagall. He really liked her, a lot. 

“Um, my Mage teacher ended up being an asshole. He kind of found out what I am while I was freeing a trapped Nephilim and Peter says I shouldn’t go home for a while.”

_“Is Derek with you? Are you safe?”_ Man, she sounded like what Stiles imagined a stern mother would sound like. It was kind of nice. 

“Yeah, he’s right here. The, uh, Nephilim too. Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but we kind of need to lay low for a while. Since we can’t go home, and you uh, offered to let us come out and visit sometime, I was just—I mean, I totally get it if that’s a bad idea. You have your pack to think about, and it’s kind of a tall order, I don’t know how long we’ll be there, and—”

_“Where are you right now?”_ Satomi interrupted. 

“Uh, I think still in Wyoming?” 

_“I’ll text you the address. If you have trouble finding it when you reach town, call me and I’ll have someone bring you up.”_

Stiles relaxed back into his seat instantly. “Satomi, _thank you_. Really, I mean it. Thank you so much.” 

_“I am always willing to offer shelter. That being said, if you’re coming here, I can’t keep my pack in the dark. They’re going to have to be informed.”_

Stiles glanced at Derek. His mouth was set, and he wasn’t happy, but they didn’t have a choice. It was true that if he went to Satomi and her pack, they deserved to know what kind of danger they may potentially be bringing down on their heads. Not to mention Satomi was their Alpha, she couldn’t invite danger into their home without warning the others, or at least letting them have a say. 

“I understand,” he said. “I trust you. If they’re in your pack—then I’m sure I can trust them, too.” 

_“I’ll text you momentarily. Be safe. See you soon.”_

She hung up.

Stiles lowered the phone, still feeling relieved they had somewhere safe to head to. It wasn’t until Derek turned around that he realized the trip they were about to undertake and he groaned, thumping his head back against the headrest. 

“I don’t want to go to New Mexico,” he whined. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- Ennis is in this chapter, and he is verbally and physically abusive. Verbally abusive to Stiles, and both verbally and physically abusive to Mason. 
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Harry Potter (c) J.K. Rowling  
> \- Treasure Island (c) Robert Louis Stevenson


	12. The Deal with Derek

It took them almost twelve hours to reach Santa Fe, New Mexico. Satomi’s pack was about half an hour outside of town. Hilariously, it was in a wooded area, which Stiles was starting to think all Werewolves liked considering the ones he’d met so far.

Despite his hyper-protectiveness being in overdrive, Stiles could tell Derek was quickly losing steam. Stiles himself had napped off and on for the better part of eight hours, so he forced Derek to switch with him when they stopped for gas and the Werewolf passed out immediately in the passenger seat. 

Mason was still quiet in the back seat, but Stiles often saw him leaning against the window with his eyes closed and a small smile on his face, like he was actually basking in the light streaming into the car. Like it had been a long time since he’d felt free. Stiles probably wasn’t wrong in that assumption, and he was glad he hadn’t just trained with Ennis and left Mason to continue to suffer. 

It was going to be weird having him around, but they’d figure it out eventually. 

Stiles woke Derek up when he was driving through the wooded path towards what he hoped was Satomi’s place. They ended up finding a small house, but given Satomi wasn’t the one who exited it when they stopped the car, Stiles figured it was the wrong one and started backing out.

He only paused when the guy waved once and called out, “Are you Stiles?” 

He and Derek shared a look before he said, “Who’s asking?” 

“My name is Brett. Satomi said you were coming. You’re a bit off the mark, but if you head back to the last fork and turn left, pass the next two turn-offs and you’ll hit the main house.” 

Stiles nodded once. “Thanks.” 

The guy watched them go, and Stiles was pretty sure he saw him disappear into the trees when he turned the car around. Sure enough, by the time they reached the house he’d referenced, Satomi was on the front porch with that Brett guy beside her. And a lot of the rest of her pack. 

Derek made an unhappy noise beside him, and Stiles figured it was because he felt uncomfortable being in unfamiliar territory with a fuckton of Werewolves. Probably moreso because he had Stiles with him, but likely also just personally. Wolves were territorial, even Stiles knew that. 

When he parked the car in a gravel patch, Satomi came down the steps and held her arms out once Stiles was out of the car. 

“It’s good to see you, Stiles.” 

“You too.” He gave her a brief hug, finding it weird to be getting one at all, but he figured she saw him as an important student or something. “Sorry again for the trouble.” 

“I told you before I would help in any way I could so long as my pack came first. Providing shelter for a time is not a hardship.” She turned to Derek, nodding once. “Hello Derek.” 

He grunted in greeting, hands in his pockets, and moved closer to Stiles, eying the wolves still on the porch. Stiles noticed Mason was lingering by the car, seeming uncertain while watching the wolves the same way Derek was. 

“You must be the Nephilim,” Satomi said loudly. Mason tensed and turned to her, but nodded cautiously. 

“That’s Mason,” Stiles said. “He’s had a bit of a rough go.”

“Perhaps it would be best he stay with you, then. The guest house is rather small, but I’m sure you’ll make it work.” 

“You have a guest house?” Stiles asked, surprised. 

As it turned out, they had three. Apparently Satomi’s pack owned a majority of the forest they were in, the same way the Hales owned the Preserve back home. The pack had built all of their houses in the general vicinity of the main house, where Satomi and a few others lived. Their guest houses were interspersed throughout the other houses, and Satomi gave them the one closest to the main house, and furthest into the fold to make Derek comfortable. It meant no one could sneak up on them. 

She explained the spells she had erected, and told Stiles he should put up a few of his own. He figured it was her subtle way of telling him to practice, and she likely wanted to see how much he’d improved since she saw him in October. 

Satomi had one of her wolves bring them to the guest house with the Camaro and let them settle in for a few hours. Derek took another nap, but made it _very clear_ to Stiles he would murder him if he left the small house without him. 

And it _was_ small. Smaller than the cabin they’d been living in, but it at least had two rooms. Both had queens in them, which was a good thing, since Stiles didn’t want to struggle to fit on a double with Derek. He let Mason choose his room first, because he doubted the kid had had the opportunity to choose anything in a long time. It seemed to be almost overwhelming for him, which Stiles had already suspected given every time they’d stopped for food, Mason seemed hesitant to ask for what he wanted. 

He ended up choosing the smaller of the two rooms and Stiles promised he’d figure out the clothing situation for him since Mason didn’t have anything. He figured they could go into town later and buy him a few things, though maybe Satomi’s pack had some clothes to spare until they could make it down there. 

Around five, Derek finally woke up from his nap and Stiles told him they should head out to talk to Satomi. She was kind enough to let them stay, Stiles didn’t want to be rude and ignore her the whole day. 

The three of them headed back for the main house. Satomi sent Mason off to shower and had Brett fetch some spare clothes for him when Stiles explained he didn’t have anything. Derek, as usual, stuck close to Stiles and the two of them went to the living room to have tea with Satomi and a few others in her pack.

They played catch-up for a while, Stiles telling her about everything that had happened in the past few months. He’d mostly kept her informed via text, but he always had to be careful what he said in case the CIA found him. Now that they _knew_ where he was, he worried less, but he still hadn’t told her everything. 

He _did_ avoid mentioning that he’d almost gone Void, though. That was something he didn’t want to focus on or think about, and he worried she’d kick them out if she knew. He felt guilty about keeping it a secret, but he noticed Derek didn’t react to the omission so it was probably a good call. 

Stiles admitted his Mage courses had been cut a little short, given the crazy man who’d been training him, but when Satomi asked how he felt about it, he insisted he was pretty okay. He knew enough, at any rate, so he would deal and just read more books. 

“I know someone,” Satomi said, putting her tea down and shifting in her seat. “A Warlock. Good man. If you’ll be here for some time, perhaps he can come train you. You mentioned you haven’t learned that form of magic yet.”

“No,” Stiles agreed, glancing at Derek. “I mean, if you trust him, I might as well move forward while I can. Not sure how long we’ll be here for, but having him and you would be beneficial.” 

Satomi seemed pleased that he admitted he’d like more Witch training, and she promised she’d get in touch with her contact to see about his availability. He didn’t live in town, so he’d have to come out for the training, though one of the other members of the pack said they could probably also Skype with him. Satomi considered that as well and said she’d speak to him and find out. 

They had dinner at the main house with Satomi and her pack, which was quite a lot bigger than the Hale pack. Stiles could tell it made Derek uncomfortable, but he was pretty good about not letting it turn him into an asshole. Nobody said anything about Derek’s silence, and Stiles suspected that Satomi had already told everyone about the two of them. Stiles was the Spark, and Derek was cursed. It made for a less awkward dinner, considering people were acting fairly normal. 

Mason was harder to bring into the fold. He didn’t seem to want to talk to anyone, and when someone bigger than him leaned too close or grabbed food across him, he flinched. Stiles saw Satomi’s eyes on him for a long while during dinner and figured she would probably work on helping him overcome what he’d been through.

That was probably for the best, Derek was cursed and Stiles definitely wasn’t qualified. Realistically, coming here was probably better than bringing Mason back home, where the closest thing he’d have to support would be Deaton.

Or he supposed probably Melissa. And the Yukimuras. Kira, at least, would be really good for him, since she was the queen of acting normal about things that sucked. Stiles really appreciated Kira. 

Everyone in Satomi’s pack was really nice. Stiles was seated between Derek and a girl named Heather, who seemed extremely interested in just about everything. It was kind of fun to talk to someone about nerdy things, since it’d been a while since Stiles last spoke to the pack back home. 

Or, it _felt_ like a while, anyway. Talking about movies and _Star Wars_ with someone who acted like he was the same as anyone else was a bit of a relief, and he actually had a good time. Even got into a debate with the guy across from him who insisted that the _Solo_ movie was actually good, whereas Heather and Stiles insisted he was bat-shit _crazy_ because that movie had fucking _sucked_. 

As they were leaving, one of the guys in Satomi’s pack pulled Derek aside. Stiles had to stop because he saw how tense Derek got about being separated from him, so he just hovered by the door while the guy asked Derek about his guitar. He’d apparently noticed it earlier when they’d stopped at the house with the Camaro. He played in a band in town for fun and told Derek he’d be happy to teach him some things when Stiles told him he was still a beginner. 

Derek seemed a little pleased when they headed back to their temporary home, and Stiles was glad he was going to be getting some time with someone who knew guitars. He had Parrish back home, but who knew when they were going back there. 

Which was depressing, and Stiles didn’t want to think about it. 

When they got back inside, Stiles showered first, then told Derek to at least _shut the door_ when it was his turn, because poor Mason didn’t need to see all of _that_. Derek gave him an annoyed look, and Stiles imagined he would’ve gotten flipped off if Derek could actually do that. 

He did, at least, shut the bathroom door for once. 

Stiles stretched while heading back to the living area, Mason sitting on the couch in a pair of sweats and an oversized shirt. Stiles was glad people had been able to find him some things to wear, but he definitely wanted to get him some real clothes sooner rather than later. 

As someone who’d experienced being on the run without anything to wear, he knew how much it fucking _sucked_. 

“Doing okay?” Stiles asked, falling down beside Mason and reaching to grab one of the many Mage books he’d brought with him to the cabin. It sucked he didn’t have any Warlock books, but this whole side-trip hadn’t exactly been planned. He figured the one book he’d originally read when he’d first moved to Beacon Hills would have to be good enough for now. 

“I can sleep on the couch,” Mason said in response. 

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why?” 

“There’s only two beds,” he insisted. “I wasn’t even meant to be here. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be on your way home by now.” 

“Uh, pretty sure that’s not true, given Ennis was planning on coming at me when his buddies showed up.” Stiles flipped open the book and went to the last page he’d read, his phone going off in the bedroom. He ignored it for now, it was probably Scott. They’d been texting off and on since Wyoming until Stiles got behind the wheel. 

“I can sleep on the couch,” Mason repeated. “You and Derek can have the rooms.” 

“Don’t worry, we always share the bed,” Stiles muttered, trying to figure out if he was on the right page or not. “Derek will literally hyperventilate if I’m not in his line of sight twenty-four-seven.” 

“Because he wants to keep you safe,” Mason said softly. 

“Mm hm,” Stiles said, recognizing the spell he was on and flipping the page.

“Because you’re the Spark.” 

Stiles looked up at Mason then, the kid staring at him intently. It was like he thought staring hard enough would answer all the questions he was too afraid to ask. Stiles sighed and closed the book again, setting it down and turning to Mason, crossing his legs under himself. 

“Yeah. I’m the Spark. Guessing you know what that is.” 

“I’ve lived with Ennis long enough to know,” Mason agreed softly. 

“Did you know?” Stiles asked with a frown. “When you first saw me, in the clearing, you looked... I don’t know. Surprised, I guess.” 

“I knew you weren’t a Mage,” Mason admitted. “You have a...” he trailed off, like he wasn’t sure how to describe it. He reached out hesitantly, and seemed to pat at some invisible bubble around Stiles. “It’s not an aura, exactly. It’s like a glow. You have a golden glow. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” 

“You could see me,” Stiles said. “In the house, when I was invisible. You could see me.”

“I didn’t know you were invisible until Ennis _couldn’t_ see you,” Mason admitted. “I’m not—I don’t know much about my own powers.” 

“Yeah, welcome to the club,” Stiles muttered, then laughed slightly. “Well, I saw Satomi pull you aside earlier. Guessing she’s got some insight for you?” 

He nodded, smiling slightly. “She said she would help me. She seems really nice.” 

“She is really nice,” Stiles agreed. “Like a stern, loving grandmother. She’s pretty great.” 

Mason’s gaze shifted to the side over the back of the couch. “And what about him?” 

Stiles turned to follow his line of sight. He was looking at the bathroom door, the shower still running. Derek had either passed out in there or he felt really dirty and was trying to clean away a few layers of skin. 

“What about him?” Stiles asked, looking back at Mason. 

He seemed uncomfortable to continue, but Stiles kind of guessed on what he was asking. Given how angry Derek had been when they’d left, he was probably worried about him being violent. 

“Derek isn’t going to hurt you,” Stiles said softly. “I promise, he’s literally a giant marshmallow. He can’t help what his face looks like.” 

“He was really mad.” Mason’s voice had lowered, like he was worried Derek would hear him. 

Stiles didn’t have the heart to tell him Derek could _definitely_ hear them. They were literally in the room next door, no amount of water hitting tile was going to cover up their conversation. 

“People get mad without being violent.” Stiles felt terrible having to explain that. He wondered if Mason’s foster situation had been just as awful as living with Ennis, or if maybe it was so long ago he didn’t remember what people being mad _without_ being violent was actually like. “Derek’s a good guy. Trust me, he’d never hurt you.” _Unless you hurt me,_ he thought to himself, but felt it best not to voice that aloud. 

“He’s not actually mute, is he?” Mason asked, glancing at the door again. 

Stiles’ chest clenched at the reminder. He figured that if the Warlock thing fell through, he could try and get some research done to break Derek’s curse. No point in sitting on his ass doing nothing. 

“No, he’s not.” Stiles raked a hand through his wet hair. “He was cursed. From before I met him.” 

“I thought so.” Mason shrugged at the look Stiles sent him. “He has a weird black band cinched tight around his throat. I figured it was some kind of magic, just didn’t realize it was a curse.”

“If you can see it, do you think you can break it?” Stiles asked, shifting closer to Mason. He leaned back, clearly uncomfortable with Stiles in his space, but he couldn’t help it. “You’re a Nephilim, right? You have like, super Godly powers or whatever. You can probably break it, right?” 

“I—don’t know,” he admitted, looking even more uncomfortable. “I’m honestly not sure.” He seemed to straighten slightly, looking resolute. “But I’ll try. Once I know more about what I can do, I’ll help how I can.” 

Stiles smiled, clapping one hand to Mason’s shoulder. “Thanks buddy. That means a lot.”

The water turned off then and Stiles figured Mason would clam back up, since he didn’t know Derek could still hear them. Stiles handed over _Treasure Island_ , since he wasn’t going to have time to read it, and waited for Derek to emerge while reading his Mage book. 

When the Werewolf moved around the couch, towelling his hair dry, and nodded towards the room, Stiles figured it was late enough and closed his book. He told Mason he could head to bed whenever he wanted, then led the way to the room he was sharing with Derek. 

As Derek closed the door behind them, Stiles turned back to ask him a question, and saw Mason staring at them with the most confused look on his face. Stiles made a mental note to ask him about it when he woke up, but by the time sunlight was stabbing into his eyeballs, he’d forgotten all about it. 

* * *

Stiles didn’t mean to get distracted. He was having a great conversation with Heather, they were really hitting it off, and he liked her a lot. He _wanted_ to be paying attention, because they were talking about interesting stuff, and this was Stiles’ first real day off in almost three weeks, and he wanted to have _fun_. 

But he was distracted.

Because Derek was sitting on the front porch with Reed learning how to play a tune Stiles recognized but couldn’t place. Reed was smiling and laughing, patting Derek hard on the back while he showed him where to put his fingers. Derek himself was smiling, watching what he was doing, and seemed to be having a good time. 

“Stiles?” 

He turned back to Heather, the look on her face suggesting she’d been trying to get his attention for a while. 

“Sorry,” he said, though felt like he might not have made it sound as honest as he meant for it to, eyes returning to Derek. “He’s getting really good at that.” 

“Yeah, Reed’s a great teacher,” Heather admitted, the two of them watching while Derek strummed at the guitar, moving the fingers of his other hand. Reed let out a loud exclamation when he made it through the part he’d taught him without messing up and hit Derek in the back so hard he almost knocked him right off the porch. 

Wouldn’t be the first time. Stiles had laughed for a solid minute when Reed had actually done that a few days back. Ironically, on Stiles’ birthday. It had almost been the best birthday gift ever, seeing a horribly confused Alpha Werewolf in the dirt after having been patted on the back for doing a good job. 

Stiles had tried to sneak alcohol. Derek had stopped him, because he was a fucking spoilsport. 

“So what’s the deal with you and Derek?” 

Snapping out of his thoughts, Stiles turned back to Heather at the question, a little confused. She wasn’t the first person to ask him a question like that, but Stiles didn’t really understand because everyone knew how close they were. Even though Derek had started off as his protector because of the oath, that wasn’t why he was still there. Stiles knew Derek cared about him as a person, because nobody protecting him because they had to would have been so scared at the idea of losing him. 

“Our deal?” Stiles asked when he realized he’d been silent for too long. “We don’t have a deal.” 

Heather rolled her eyes. “That’s not—Like, are you and Derek _together_?” 

That confused him even more. “I mean, no,” he said slowly. Was that what people thought when they looked at them? “But we’re sort of a package deal. He can’t survive without me in his orbit and, to be honest, I feel like I can’t survive without him in mine. But uh, no.” Stiles looked over at Derek, watching him stare intently at Reed’s fingers on his own guitar while he explained something that was clearly very important. “Not together like _that_. He’s my best friend.” 

“Oh.” Heather had a pleased little smile on her face that Stiles didn’t fully understand. 

“Why?” Stiles asked with a frown. 

She shrugged one shoulder, still looking pleased. “You just smell a lot like him, is all. Constantly. Like you’re both always touching each other.” 

“Oh,” Stiles said. Was _that_ why people thought that? “Well, yeah, I mean, that’s probably because we live together.” 

Heather turned to him sharply then. “You do?” 

“Yeah. We live together in a loft above an abandoned train station. It’s kinda small, but you know, cozy.” Stiles leaned back where he was sitting, propping himself up on his elbows, still watching Derek try and mimic what Reed was showing him. “It only has the one bedroom, so we share it. And a bed.” Stiles frowned. “Actually, now that I say all that out loud, I can see the confusion.” 

Heather let out a small laugh, but it sounded a bit uncertain. “So you live together and sleep together, but you’re not _together_?” 

“No, we’re not,” he confirmed, turning to her. “Why do you ask? Have a bet going or something?” 

“No reason.” She offered him a sweet smile and lay down beside him. 

Stiles stayed propped up on his elbows, watching Derek, head tilted slightly. He looked so happy out here. Calm and enjoying his time with the other pack. Stiles wondered if it was because it was so much bigger and he felt like there were more people to keep Stiles safe from outside threats. 

It helped that literally no one knew where they were except for Peter, so Derek was probably feeling a bit of weight lifted off his shoulders. Not to mention he didn’t have to be an Alpha here. Stiles knew Peter was kind of acting-Alpha for the most part, since Derek wouldn’t leave Stiles’ side ever, but he was sure the pressures of the position still bore down on him when they were in Beacon Hills. 

Out here, where Satomi was in charge, Derek kind of looked like the young man he truly was as opposed to the Hale Alpha whose sworn duty was to protect the last Spark. It kind of made him wonder if Derek would ever want to _leave_. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” Heather asked after a long silence. Stiles glanced at her, then Derek, and shrugged. Not like he was doing anything right then, though he acknowledged he should probably get back to work on Derek’s curse. 

“Sure.” He raised his voice slightly when he spoke again. “Derek.” 

The Werewolf turned to look at him and Stiles thumbed over his shoulder. 

“Heather and I are gonna go for a walk.” 

Derek made a circle with one finger and Stiles flapped one hand at him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. We won’t leave the territory.” 

That was another good thing about the Ito pack and the area they were in: Derek actually let Stiles wander off. Never _alone_ , and it had taken him two weeks to actually trust the others to be alone with him, but he was allowed to wander around. It was nice. 

Getting to his feet, Stiles brushed grass off his ass and held his hand out to Heather, helping haul her up. They wandered away in a random direction, Stiles trusting Heather’s knowledge of the territory and his own grasp on Satomi’s perimeter magic to know when they got too close to the edge of their land. 

Stiles had really enjoyed the past three weeks. He still missed being back home, but he liked New Mexico a lot more than Wyoming. It was warmer out there too, and the guest house they were in had actual fucking _heating_. 

He’d also been getting a lot of refresher lessons from Satomi, along with Skype Warlock lessons. Unfortunately, Satomi’s Warlock friend wasn’t available to drop whatever he was doing to come out and train Stiles. It was hard to remember sometimes that these people had jobs, mostly because Stiles lived with Derek, who didn’t have one but magically always had money. He knew it was from Peter, but still, he often forgot people worked for a living. 

The Warlock was cool, though. His name was Sean, and he trained Stiles over Skype five days a week. Whenever he wasn’t training with Sean, Stiles was with Satomi. And whenever Stiles wasn’t with Satomi, she was with Mason. 

He was still skittish and jumpy, and he froze whenever someone got mad or there was a loud noise, like he expected to get hit, but he was slowly getting better. He was still hesitant around Derek sometimes, but there was definite improvement. Stiles could tell it bothered Derek a little bit, that he’d basically destroyed the somewhat friendship they’d formed in the clearing just by being angry at Stiles for almost getting caught, but he took it in stride and did his best. 

Derek took a lot of things in stride. 

Stiles figured he really needed to get back on the curse research. It wasn’t that he’d stopped, it was more that he was kind of lacking in materials. Satomi had _some_ books, but not as many as the Hales did. Stiles was _really_ missing the vault. 

“So how are things going with Sean?” Heather asked while they wandered along the path.

Stiles looked up when he heard thunder rumbling overhead. It’d been a little cloudy all day, but he hadn’t realized rain was coming. 

“They’re good. Slow going, but I guess that’s the difference between having someone there in person as opposed to through a screen. But I appreciate all the time he’s giving me.” 

“You’re gonna be a great Spark,” Heather insisted, nudging him lightly and taking his arm. She was leaning into him a bit heavily, but he didn’t mind. She was warm, like all Werewolves tended to be. Not as warm as Derek, though. Maybe it was an Alpha thing.

Or a Derek thing. 

“I hope so,” Stiles said. “So far it’s just been a lot of people after me and magic going haywire. Feel kind of useless.” 

“Satomi says your Witch magic is really good now.” 

He turned to her with a small smile. “Yeah? I mean, I’ve been practising a lot, so I’m glad it’s showing through. By the way, how’s Mason been—”

Stiles hadn’t meant to jerk his head back _quite_ so violently, but when he’d turned back to Heather, she’d brought one hand to his face and leaned up to kiss him. He’d only just noticed before their lips touched and pulled away, a little startled. 

In his defence, Stiles hadn’t ever really had the opportunity to get to know people, so he’d never really had a crush on anyone before barring celebrities. But even those weren’t exactly crushes, they were just finding someone attractive. Stiles found a lot of people attractive. 

Derek was attractive, Peter was attractive, Cora was attractive... Wow, he apparently had the hots for all the Hales. But it wasn’t just them! Lydia was attractive, too! And Isaac! And hell, even Heather was attractive. Stiles appreciated the human form, people were very good looking. 

But he’d never really stuck around long enough to form a connection with someone that he recognized as _being_ a crush. Honestly, he didn’t know if he’d even recognize what a crush felt like. He just knew that he didn’t have one on Heather. For one thing, he barely knew her—he’d only been there for three weeks, he fucking knew _Mason_ better than he knew her. 

For another, he thought she was cute, sure, but he could tell that any feelings he had for her didn’t go beyond friendship. He also wasn’t interested in a relationship right now, not only because he had other things to focus on—like not dying or getting captured by crazy people looking to use and abuse him—but also because... this just wasn’t a good time. He had other things to worry about. 

Heather was staring up at him, looking hurt and confused, and Stiles winced, struggling not to bring his free hand up to rub the back of his head. He forced himself to keep it at his side, but didn’t pull his other arm free from Heather’s grasp. 

“I don’t understand,” Heather said, voice soft and confused. 

Stiles hated that it started to rain then, because this wasn’t a fucking movie. It should _not_ be raining right now to symbolize Heather’s hurt, that was just fucking _rude_. 

“Look,” Stiles said softly, and now he _did_ pull his arm free, but he took one of her hands in his, squeezing it lightly while staring down at it. The rain was cold hitting his skin, and it was falling harder as they stood there. His hair was starting to stick to his forehead, his shirt soaking through, and he wished he knew what to say to make this entire situation not suck so much. 

“Look,” he tried again. “I like you. A lot.” He said it because it was true, and she deserved to know that. “I’ve had a lot of fun hanging out with you the past few weeks. But I’m not...” He winced, unsure of what to say. He didn’t want to be cliche and say it wasn’t the right time, even though it _wasn’t_.

He also didn’t want to admit he didn’t feel the same way, because he didn’t want to hurt her. It didn’t help that the rain was making her hair stick to her skin and drops were rolling down her cheeks as if she were crying. He knew she wasn’t. She looked hurt, but she wasn’t _fragile_. 

“I mean,” Stiles continued, “I’m not staying.” It was the most honest thing he could think to say to her. 

“You could,” she insisted, tightening her hand around his and taking a step forward into his space. The rain was getting loud where it was hitting the leaves overhead and the ground around them. He was glad she was raising her voice a bit, since he wasn’t a Werewolf. “If you wanted. Satomi really likes you, you know.” 

Stiles leaned back slightly, trying not to make it obvious he wanted her out of his space. There was really only one Werewolf he trusted to be in his space when pissed off or upset, and Heather wasn’t it. 

“I know,” he admitted. “And I like Satomi a lot, too. She’s a great Alpha. But I have my own pack.” 

Heather’s expression shifted then to something... not unkind, more sceptical. “Do you, though?” 

Stiles frowned, bringing one hand up to wipe water out of his eyes. “What?” 

Heather shrugged expansively, letting out a harsh exhale. Her breath puffed white and Stiles realized he was getting cold. The conversation was making him uncomfortable enough he hadn’t noticed until even a Werewolf looked chilled. 

“I mean, you don’t seem to be in any real hurry to get back to them. Your pack.” 

Stiles stared at her for a long while, water dripping off the ends of his hair and along his face. He didn’t know how to answer that, because the only reason he wasn’t leaving was because he _couldn’t_. 

And Heather fucking _knew_ that. 

“Well, things are kind of complicated right now,” he finally settled on, perhaps a little coldly. He pulled his hand out of hers. She let him, but crossed her arms over her chest with another shrug. 

“Are they?” 

“I said they are,” Stiles shot back, feeling defensive now. Did she honestly think she knew more about how Stiles felt towards his pack than _he_ did? 

Stiles fucking _missed_ them! He wanted to go _home_! He wanted to see if Parrish and Derek could sort out their differences over guitar lessons. He wanted to spend time with Scott and find a way to repay him for helping with his dad. He wanted to sit with Boyd and Isaac and talk about stupid things, hang out, have fun. He wanted to spend time with Peter and work on helping Derek get his voice back. 

He fucking wanted to go _home_! 

“What if you’re just trying to convince yourself of that?” Heather asked, raising her voice a bit more when the rain started falling harder. Stiles ended up crossing his own arms over his chest, both defensively and also because he was actually really getting cold. It was April, but the rain was biting into him. 

“Convince myself?” Stiles asked harshly. “Of what?” 

“What if you know, deep down, that they’re just using you?” 

The words hit home harder than he was sure she meant them to. Because honestly, he still had those thoughts. Every now and then, when he was doing something mundane, like the dishes, or loading up the laundry machine, or taking a shower, he thought about it. What if everything was a lie and people were just using him? 

But then he thought about everything he’d been through with Derek. About all the ways Derek had shown him he mattered. About how Peter had helped him graduate high school. How Scott had made a deal with his father, whom he hated, to get Stiles’ dad’s body back where it belonged in Beacon Hills. Kira’s easy friendship, Cora’s teasing, Parrish’s comforting words. 

They cared about him. He knew they did. He forgot sometimes, because it was hard to trust people so completely knowing what he was, but deep down, he knew they cared about _him_ , not about what he was. 

“They’re not,” he shot back angrily. 

“Is this because of Derek?” Heather demanded, stamping one foot like a child and tilting her chin up slightly in defiance. 

“Why would this be because of Derek?” Stiles insisted. He ignored that he hadn’t technically answered her question. He ignored that he kind of knew what the answer was. 

“He follows you around like a lost puppy,” she snapped. Stiles instantly bristled at her tone, arms unfolding slowly and fists clenching at his sides. “Isn’t it annoying?” 

“No,” he shot back. “Derek is my friend.” 

She scoffed. “I don’t get it.” 

“There’s nothing to _get_ ,” Stiles insisted, frustrated and wishing he’d said no to this entire fucking walk. “He’s my friend.” 

Heather let out a frustrated sound, pushing her wet hair out of her face. “It’s just, I don’t get how anyone can _be_ friends with him. I mean, he can’t even _talk_.” 

Stiles felt like the world had tipped sideways and he took an angry step forward, getting right in her face when he screamed, “He’s fucking _cursed_!” 

Like she didn’t _know_ that. 

Like it was a secret and she’d had _no_ idea. 

Like Derek _chose_ not to speak. Chose not to be able to nod or shake his head. To flip someone off. To write something down. Like it was all a _choice_ to Derek. 

But then, Heather said something else. 

She said something she definitely should not have said. 

“I know, but it was probably his own fault, right?” 

The air froze in Stiles’ lungs at those words and his vision went black for a second. He felt like he could feel every single beat of his heart throughout his entire body. A part of him wondered if he was hallucinating, because there was no way she’d just said that about Derek. Not to Stiles. Definitely not to his _face_ right now.

About Derek.

About _Derek_!

He felt like every breath was a struggle, and it took him a long while to focus on her again, his vision still swimming like he couldn’t breathe. Heather had taken a step back and she was looking at his hands. 

Stiles’ heart stuttered in his chest and he immediately looked down, terrified he was about to find black tendrils rising off his skin.

Instead he just saw electricity, bolts of it shooting up and down his arms, crackling between his fingers. That was normal for him when he got mad. That was nothing to worry about. 

That wasn’t him going Void. 

He forced himself to stare down at his hands while he calmed down. He tried to insist that Heather was just hurt, and clearly embarrassed at being turned down, and she hadn’t meant what she’d said. She was just trying to hurt Stiles like he’d hurt her, and taking a jab at Derek was the easiest way to do that. 

He stared at his hands until the coils of light faded back beneath his skin, and then waited some more until those also disappeared entirely, so that all he could see was the rain falling against his palms. 

He clenched them into fists, letting out a slow, shaky breath. 

“I think I should go,” he said quietly, knowing she would hear him. 

He’d never walked through these woods on his own before. He knew Derek would be pissed if he found out, but Stiles couldn’t walk back to the house with her. He really couldn’t. 

Not after that. 

Turning his back on her, he started walking in the direction they’d come, and paused when she called out after him, speaking loudly to be heard over the falling rain. 

“Stiles, I’m sorry.” She sounded like she meant it, too. She sounded like it wasn’t her intention to hit so hard. “That came out wrong.” 

“No,” Stiles insisted, turning his head slightly but not looking at her. “No, I don’t think it did.” Because while he knew she hadn’t meant to hurt him _that_ much, he also knew she still meant every word she’d said. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Stiles—”

“Go back to the house, Heather,” he said, and kept walking away from her. 

* * *

**[Stiles]**  
are you still at the house with reed?

 **[Derek]**  
2

 **[Stiles]**  
you back at ours then?

 **[Derek]**  
1

 **[Stiles]**  
mason with you?

 **[Derek]**  
1

 **[Stiles]**  
k omw

Stiles had been standing outside the guest house a little into the woods for almost twenty minutes. He was cold, he was wet, and he was fucking _miserable_ , but he hadn’t wanted to go inside until he’d calmed down. He’d figured Derek would head back to their little house as soon as the rain started, and going in there while pissed off would mean having to explain _why_ he was pissed off.

He didn’t want to explain. Because while Derek would just shrug it off and act like it didn’t matter, Stiles knew it did. He _knew_ it bothered him. And it bothered Stiles, too.

People acted like there was something _wrong_ with Derek because he couldn’t speak, and not only was that downright awful considering he was cursed, he hated to think how people would treat someone who was _actually_ mute. He knew this was different, because Derek couldn’t write, or sign, or even nod, but that wasn’t the point! The point was, Derek was cursed, it wasn’t his fault, and he _was_ understandable if only people took the fucking time to get to _know_ him! 

Stiles wasn’t fucking _special_! He understood Derek because he’d taken the time to learn all his little mannerisms. His facial expressions, and his body language, and all the various pantomimes he did. Kira and Peter understood him well enough, and Deaton was probably the only person who could actually have a conversation with Derek _over the phone_! 

It was possible! People were just rude and lazy and Stiles _hated_ it!

And he was getting worked up again, so he just exhaled sharply, wiping his phone off on his wet pants—like it did any good—before shoving it back into his pocket and crouching down beside a tree. It had a lot of foliage and was actually providing a small amount of shelter, but Stiles’ teeth were chattering and he knew he was going to get sick if he stayed outside much longer. 

He stared down at his hands, wanting reassurance that they were still normal. Clenching them into fists, he bowed his head and pressed them both against his forehead. 

He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t sure he wanted to stay here anymore, but they couldn’t go back yet. Peter had changed his number virtually the moment the stores opened in the morning in an attempt to cut Ennis off at the pass, but he’d still found him, in the end. There were people wandering around Beacon Hills trying to find him. The police kept kicking them out when they were caught, but it was hard to track all of them down. 

The pack did what it could. The cops did what they could. But the people were still there. 

Stiles knew he was better, now. His magic had improved, he knew five and a half of the seven major magic factions, but he was still too full of self-doubt and fear to really tap into his full potential. Ever since his near miss with being Void, he was too scared to push too hard. 

But he didn’t have a choice anymore, and he knew that. People would always come for him, but they would come less frequently if they heard he was at full power. It was harder to control an adult, full-power Spark. People would still try, like the ones who’d come for his mother. Like the CIA. People would always still try.

It would just be _less_. 

Letting out a harsh exhale, his breath visible in front of him, Stiles got to his feet and decided it was time to go inside. He was calm enough that Derek wouldn’t know he’d been mad, and he was honestly worried about losing his toes and fingers. Thankfully he had a Werewolf heater on the other side of the door. 

Stiles walked out of the trees quickly, the rain still falling hard around him, and rushed to the door. He knew it wouldn’t be locked, since he’d told Derek he was on his way back, and Derek really only locked it when Stiles was _in_ it, because he seemed to have less regard for his own safety than Stiles’. 

Closing his hand around the knob, he pushed open the door and hurried inside, Mason jumping from his spot on the couch. He and Derek were sitting at opposite ends of it, one reading, the other with his guitar. The distance between them was telling, but Stiles was glad Mason had at least stayed in the place alone with Derek. 

Progress. It was progress. 

“Were you out there in the rain this whole time?” Mason asked, surprised. 

Derek said nothing, which was weird. Not that he said nothing, considering, but Stiles had expected an eye roll, or an exasperated sigh, or some kind of displeased expression at the fact that Stiles was going to get sick. 

He didn’t get any of that. 

Derek was just staring at him, face completely blank. Stiles had honestly never seen him look so expressionless before. He was just... _staring_ at him. 

Stiles frowned, confused, but didn’t dwell on it, bringing one hand up to rake through his wet hair. He was sure it was sticking up weirdly, but he didn’t care. He wanted out of the wet clothes, they were sticking to him like a second skin and doing nothing for how cold he was. 

“Can you get me a towel or something?” Stiles muttered. “I don’t want to trail water through the whole place.” 

He’d expected Derek to be the one to do it. To sigh, roll his eyes, put his guitar down, and go and fetch him a towel. Maybe he’d throw it at Stiles, giving him one of his usual ‘you’re an idiot’ looks. Maybe he’d actually walk it over to him and wrap it around his shoulders before flicking him in the forehead for being stupid. 

But Derek still didn’t move. 

He just _sat_ there. 

_Staring_. 

Mason glanced at the Werewolf briefly, then closed his book and looked back at Stiles. “Uh, yeah. Sure.” 

He disappeared into the bathroom to grab one of the spares from under the sink, Stiles raking his hand through his hair again. He grabbed at the bottom of his shirt, wincing at how gross it felt, all wet like it was, and struggled to pull it up over his head. He dropped it on the floor with a loud ‘splat’ and nodded a thanks to Mason when he came back with the towel. 

He used it to towel his hair dry first, and when he looked back over at Derek, the Werewolf was staring down at the floor where Stiles’ shirt was. His expression was still closed off, but Stiles felt like he was having some kind of existential crisis because his eyes were just a _bit_ wider than normal and he was keeping his breathing perfectly even. 

“You okay over there?” Stiles asked him, using the towel to dry off his back, teeth still chattering. “You suddenly get shy or something? You’ve literally seen me naked.” 

Derek flinched at that, eyes shooting back up to Stiles’ face. He frowned again, because Derek was acting weird, but the Werewolf very carefully leaned back in his seat, still staring Stiles dead in the eyes, and strummed his guitar. Then he cocked an eyebrow, and Stiles relaxed slightly, because that was more like it. Whatever had just happened had passed, so he didn’t dwell on it. 

“Fuck man, it’s _freezing_ out there,” Stiles hissed, wrapping the towel around his shoulders while going for his pants. 

“Are you just gonna get naked right here in the living room?” Mason asked, sounding a little distressed. 

Stiles paused in what he was doing, and when he glanced up, he saw Mason staring at the ceiling, and he wasn’t _positive_ , but he was _pretty sure_ he was blushing. 

“I mean, I have boxers on,” Stiles said cautiously. “But uh, I guess—I’ll shuffle to the bathroom?” 

“Could you?” Mason asked awkwardly and oh yeah, that was _definitely_ a blush. 

Stiles felt both pleased and a little guilty. He hadn’t realized Mason was, at the very least, not entirely straight. He was just used to being completely open with Derek that he forgot not everyone was used to how they acted with each other.

He _still_ had to remind Derek to shut the door when he showered. 

“Sorry,” Stiles said, throwing the towel down on the floor and toeing off his shoes. He stepped onto the towel and then shuffled his way towards the bathroom. Shutting the door behind him, he stripped out of the rest of his clothes, then hopped into the shower. 

The hot water was scalding his skin after the cold rain he’d been standing in for so long, but it was such a good burn Stiles wanted to _live_ in the shower. He crouched under the spray, staying like that for a long while until he could feel his toes again. Once he wasn’t a human popsicle anymore, he figured he may as well shower properly and washed up. 

He didn’t hear the door open, and the shower had a black curtain, so he didn’t see when Derek put clothes on the counter for him. He was grateful for them when he stepped out though, pulling on his shorts and some loose sweats, and the long-sleeved shirt Derek had picked out for him. 

The guest house didn’t have a laundry machine, so Stiles hung his wet clothes up on the shower rod, then went to the entrance to grab his shirt. Someone had draped it across the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and he picked it up to bring it to the bathroom as well, since it had already started forming a small puddle on the floor. 

Mason had moved to one of the armchairs, like he’d known Stiles would immediately seek out Derek’s warm, _warm_ body upon exiting the shower. And that was exactly what he did. 

“Derek,” he whined, falling down beside him and leaning heavily into him, being mindful of his guitar. “I’m cold.” 

The look he got clearly said, “You just showered.” 

“I know,” he said, still in his whiney voice, “but I’m still cold. Give me your body heat.” 

Derek’s snort implied, “Leech,” but he obediently put the guitar down and pulled Stiles further into his side, one arm wrapped around his shoulders. Stiles rested his cheek against Derek’s shoulder and put one hand up under his shirt onto his stomach. Derek grunted at that, but he was used to it since Stiles often did that at night when his hands were particularly cold. 

When Stiles was comfortable, he glanced over at Mason, and found him staring at them. The Nephilim hastily looked back down at his book, seeming embarrassed at being caught. 

It occurred to Stiles that Mason probably thought the same thing as everyone else. He supposed he and Derek _were_ close, but wasn’t that how all friends were? He saw how Isaac was with everyone, and while he was pretty sure there was something there between Cora and Lydia, he still felt like they acted similarly as friends. 

Was it so weird for him to want to curl up against a fucking furnace who happened to be a Werewolf and a dude? He was his friend, it wasn’t like it was a big deal. 

Derek didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. And he never seemed to mind, either. 

“Wake me up when it’s dinner time,” Stiles told them, closing his eyes. 

Derek grunted, rubbing his hand gently up and down Stiles’ arm. That felt nice, it was helping him stay warm and cozy. He wished he’d thought to drag a blanket out there, he’d have liked that. 

He didn’t know why he hadn’t just spent his day off here, with Derek. This was tons better than going to the house and having awful conversations with people. He acknowledged that the day hadn’t started out terribly, and that the conversation hadn’t _originally_ been awful, but he had a bad taste in his mouth now and he wanted to go home. 

Stiles was in that blissful state between consciousness and sleep where everything was just... comfortably fuzzy, when someone knocked on the door and he started awake. Derek’s hand tightened around his arm, a reminder that he was okay and Stiles groaned, burying his face in Derek’s chest. He’d kind of been drooling on his shirt, but Derek didn’t seem to care. 

He heard Mason stand to head for the door, and when he opened it, Stiles stiffened. 

“Hello. I apologize for the intrusion, I was hoping I could have a word with Stiles.” 

He didn’t want to have a word right now. He was happy and comfy and he didn’t want to get angry again. Because if Satomi was here, it was because of what had happened in the forest. Maybe Heather told her that Stiles had attacked her. Maybe she said he was unstable, that his magic had started going haywire.

Maybe Stiles’ hands had been okay, but his eyes were black, and now Satomi knew he had the potential to go Void. 

Derek poked at his arm with the hand around his shoulders and Stiles sighed before sitting up properly, pulling away from him. He shifted on the couch, crossing his legs under him and looked over at Satomi. She was still standing outside under the awning, the rain still coming down but less than it was. 

She was dry, even though Stiles didn’t see an umbrella, and it occurred to him she’d probably used a shield spell to avoid being rained on. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Because he was stupid, clearly. 

“The others are ordering Indian food up at the house,” Satomi said, looking at Derek. “Perhaps you and Mason would like to join them? You don’t have to eat there if you don’t want to, but they’re not sure what you would like.” 

Derek frowned, glancing at Stiles. It was a clear dismissal, which Satomi had _never_ done before, because she knew how important Stiles was to Derek. She knew who Derek was. But it was very clear that she wanted to speak to Stiles _alone_. 

Wincing, Stiles raked a hand through his still-damp hair and turned to Derek. “You know what I like. I’d rather eat here, if that’s okay with you.” 

Derek searched his face, looking for something Stiles couldn’t identify. Maybe confirmation that he was okay, or an attempt to see if Stiles was under some weird spell or something. When Stiles just shoved him lightly in the arm to get him to go, Derek finally stood. He watched him for a moment longer, looked at Satomi, and then back at Stiles. 

Derek tapped his pocket lightly with one hand, clearly saying Stiles could text him whenever if he needed him to come back. He just nodded in agreement and Derek left with Mason, casting one last confused look over his shoulder. 

Satomi stood just inside the door, hands folded together and head tilted. Stiles figured she was listening to Derek walk away so she’d know when it was safe to speak. Stiles was sure the other Werewolf wouldn’t purposefully listen in, but it was probably hard not to sometimes. 

“May I come in?” Satomi asked after a long moment and Stiles motioned for her to take a seat wherever.

“It’s your place.” 

“This is _your_ place, Stiles.” Satomi sat down in the armchair that Mason had previously been in, folding her hands in her lap and watching him. “As long as you’re in this unit, this is your space and I would never encroach on it without permission.” 

“You always have permission,” Stiles said honestly. 

Satomi smiled then, tight and fierce, like she was happy to hear that. They were silent for a moment longer, and he wondered if Derek was lingering closeby or if she just wasn’t sure what to say. 

Finally, she sighed. “Heather told me what happened.” 

Stiles instantly got defensive. “I didn’t mean to lose control, and I didn’t even _touch_ he—”

Satomi held one hand up to silence him and it was more effective than if she’d slapped him. She had that kind of presence. 

“All she said about you was that Mage magic came out, nothing more. What she told me was that she said some very unkind things to you about Derek. I just wanted to come and apologize.” 

Stiles was silent for a moment, chewing the words over. Heather had been honest, then. She hadn’t lied and said he’d hurt her or anything—though he knew he _had_ hurt her, just not physically. 

“You’re not the one who should apologize, and I’m not the one that should be receiving it.” 

Satomi nodded. “I understand, and I’m sure Heather will apologize to Derek in her own way when he arrives at the house.” She sighed, looking older all of a sudden. “Stiles, I want you to understand something. I like you a great deal. You’re a smart young man, very honest, very caring. You’re a good person, and anyone would be lucky to have you, not only in their pack, but in their life. I know you came here seeking shelter, and I would never want you to feel like that shelter comes at a price. I know you have your own pack, I know Derek is your Alpha, and I know you care for him a great deal, as he does you. If you wanted to stay, I would be thrilled, but please understand I would never ask you to. It has to be your choice, and I do not want you to ever feel like you don’t have a choice in the matter.” 

Stiles was scratching rather hard at one of his arms, finding this conversation extremely uncomfortable. He knew that wasn’t Satomi’s intention. He knew she was just trying to tell him that he could stay if he wanted, but he was also free to go, but it still felt like a trap. He knew it wasn’t, Satomi wasn’t like that, but he just... didn’t like people making it seem like he wasn’t happy with the pack he had. 

“I like your pack,” Stiles said quietly. “A lot. I do. And you’re an amazing Alpha, and a great teacher. I really like spending time here, and I’d like to spend more time here. Not necessarily just now, but in the future. Come and visit. But...” He licked his lips. “Beacon Hills is where I belong. It’s where my mom put down roots. It’s where the Hales are.”

Satomi smiled, leaning over to take his hand, forcing him to stop scratching at his arm. She squeezed it tightly. 

“You are welcome here whenever you like, and for however long you want. I might not be a member of the Order, but having met you, I can understand the appeal. We will keep you hidden and safe as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I honestly—I don’t know how I’d have gotten this far without everyone who’s helped me.”

Satomi smiled and patted his hand lightly. “I’ll speak to my pack about Derek. I know what Heather said came from a place of anger, but Derek is an incredible person, and I know he means a great deal to you. I’m sorry that this conversation with Heather might have soured your friendship with her.” 

Stiles shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll figure it out. I might never be able to talk to her how we did before, but I still like her as a person. I’ll get over it.” 

“I think she would very much like it if you could still speak to her, even if it’s not the same as before,” Satomi said, getting to her feet. “I’ll wait for Derek to return before heading out. I know how he dislikes you being alone. Perhaps we won’t mention your trek through the forest with no one there to watch out for you.” 

“Are you saying I can’t take care of myself?” Stiles asked with a small smile, pulling his phone out to text Derek. 

“No, are you?” she asked with a teasing smile. 

He just laughed and texted Derek to say he could come back. He didn’t know if Derek had just been waiting for the text, or if he’d already been on his way back when he got it, but he showed up less than five minutes later, and Stiles felt warmth spread through his chest the second he walked through the door. 

* * *

Stiles tapped his pen against the coffee table, his other hand pressed against his mouth while he stared down at the illustration in front of him. He couldn’t help the frustrated sound that escaped him and it took everything he had not to scribble angrily across the page. The only reason he didn’t was because the book wasn’t his, it was Sean’s. 

He’d started coming by every now and then since May had started, since Stiles and Derek—and Mason—were _still_ stuck in New Mexico. Stiles hated it less now than he had when they’d first arrived, but he felt it was more because he’d started trying to compartmentalize. He was tricking his brain into pretending he was still moving every few months and didn’t actually _have_ a home right now. It made it easier being away. 

The only advantage to being here was that his magic was actually getting really good, now. After over a month of training with both Sean _and_ Satomi, and practising a few side-magics on his own, he felt pretty confident. Still wasn’t great, and he knew he had a long way to go, but if someone came at him now, he felt like he could hold his own. Not that he’d have to, given Derek. 

Which was currently his source of frustration. 

Not Derek, but his curse. 

He’d started asking for books from both Sean and Satomi, hence the borrowed item on the coffee table right now. He’d been told a few times since his arrival by both of them that Derek’s curse wasn’t something his magic could fix, but he wasn’t willing to believe that. What was the point in being this all-powerful rare Spark if he couldn’t help the _one person_ that mattered most to him? 

Mason had been great at trying to help. He still didn’t know everything about being a Nephilim, but as he learned, he tried to use what he knew to see if it would help Derek. Of course, he had to admit he could see the black band around his throat, and Stiles had noticed Derek often reaching up when he was distracted, rubbing at his neck like he could _feel_ it now that he knew it was there. 

Stiles wanted to fix this. He wanted to help him. He didn’t want people to look at Derek and not know how to talk to him because he was limited in his communication. He wanted to hear Derek say his name, to talk to him about something he was passionate about, to yell at him, just— _anything_. 

He just wanted him to not live with the constant reminder of a horrible period of his life where a crazy bitch had basically enslaved him, done God knew what to him while he was a _minor_ , and then had _cursed_ him until he admitted he loved her and _meant_ it. 

That, more than anything, was what sickened Stiles. Because that meant that Kate was under the impression she’d have had Derek there for long enough that she _could_ make him love her. That she could break him and twist him and make him truly think he loved her. That what she did to him was a form of love. That she hurt him because she loved him.

It made him sick. It made him _mad_. It made him—he just... He fucking _hated_ her! 

“Hey,” Mason said quietly from the couch behind him. “I’m gonna call it a night. You should too, it’s late.” 

Stiles grunted in response, still tapping his pen against the table. He was sure it was driving Derek crazy, what with his Werewolf hearing, but Stiles had heard his breathing even out earlier so he was pretty sure he’d passed out already. 

He heard Mason get up and head for the bathroom. Stiles kept tapping his pen while reading over the words in front of him, then flipped the page. Mason exited the bathroom and his bedroom door shut a few moments later. 

Everything went silent. 

Stiles dropped his pen and rubbed at his eyes, knowing he should sleep, but not wanting to. If he went to sleep, then he wouldn’t be able to work on this in the morning because Derek would be up and about, and Stiles didn’t want him to know he was obsessing about his curse. 

He’d been staying up later and later the past week and a half looking into things. Derek used to stay up with him, but when Stiles made it clear he should go to bed, the Werewolf started heading to the room around midnight. Mason usually lasted until about two in the morning, but sometimes he went to bed earlier. 

Stiles pulled his phone out to check the time and saw it was half-past three. He debated going to bed, but then looked at how little progress he’d made and put his phone away, grabbing his pen and resuming his tapping while reading the page in front of him. 

His eyes were starting to burn, but he kept reading, occasionally taking notes just so he could feel like he was making progress, even though he knew he wasn’t. Even though he knew nothing in this fucking book was going to _help_. 

Stiles tensed when he heard one of the bedroom doors open. He heard nothing else until the bathroom door closed, and knew that meant it was Derek. Mason might have been a Nephilim who float-walked or whatever, but he couldn’t quite reach the level of silence that a Werewolf did. 

Rubbing his face with both hands again, his pen rolling off the end of the table and onto the floor, Stiles pulled his phone back out and saw it was almost five. He really should go to bed, but he didn’t have anything planned for the day, so he could always just keep at it for maybe two more hours and then crash until lunch. Derek wouldn’t be fully up for at _least_ another hour, so he should take advantage of this time while he had it. 

When the bathroom door opened again, Stiles hunkered back down, reading over a sentence he was sure was jumbled up, and tensed when a hand fell lightly onto his shoulder. Derek squeezed just once, a small request. 

“Please come to bed,” it said. 

“Not yet,” Stiles said. “Busy.” 

Derek’s hand stayed where it was, and Stiles hoped he let it go. He fucking _prayed_ he would just let it go and turn around. Go back to bed. Leave him be. 

He squeezed again, harder this time. 

“I said no,” Stiles snapped, wrenching his shoulder free violently. “Just fucking go back to bed, Derek!” 

He heard nothing behind him, and thought maybe he’d actually listened. Maybe he’d turned and gone back to bed, figured Stiles just needed some time, that he’d come when he was ready. 

He really should’ve known better, because Derek came around the side of the couch and crouched beside Stiles, giving him a look that told him, in no uncertain terms, that Stiles was going to bed if he had to fucking _carry_ him there. 

That pissed him off, because he was an _adult_ , and he could damn well fucking stay up all night if he _wanted_ to and he was _busy_! He was fucking _busy_! 

“Go back to bed, Derek!” he snapped again, louder this time. 

Derek raised his eyebrows very slowly, and when he started to reach for the book open on the table, presumably to snap it shut, Stiles lost it. 

He flipped the coffee table over, Derek jerking slightly in shock since he was only crouching and not sitting. Stiles rounded on him and shoved him, hard, so that Derek fell over, landing on his ass, staring at him with his stupid big green eyes, and that fucking _face_ , and looking _hurt_ and confused and just—

“Leave me alone! Can you just leave me the _fuck_ alone for two _God damn_ seconds?! I’m not _helpless_! I’m not gonna fucking _break_! I can stay up all fucking night if I want to, Derek! I can do what I want! I’m this all-powerful fucking _being_ , Derek! I can do anything! Literally fucking anything! I can _do it_!” Stiles scrambled over the upturned coffee table to grab the book. “I can _do this_ , Derek! I can figure this out!” He opened it and flipped to the last page he’d been on, still half-on top of the upturned coffee table. “I can figure this out! What’s the point of being what I am if I can’t figure this out?! If I can’t _fix_ this?! I can fix it! I know I can! I just need time! I can _fix it_! I _can_!” 

Derek appeared in front of him, kneeling in his line of sight, and put both hands on Stiles’ arms, squeezing gently. 

Stiles was breathing hard, feeling like he couldn’t get enough oxygen, and like he wanted to scream. Or cry. Or maybe both. Because what was the point? What was the point of all these people having died for him? All these people risking their _lives_ for him? All this _shit_ he’d gone through? What was the point if he couldn’t help the _one person_ who meant _everything_ to him? 

“I can do it,” Stiles insisted, feeling his throat tighten. “Derek, I can do it, I just need time. Please, I just need time.” 

One of Derek’s hands left his arm and he very carefully gripped the spine of the book Stiles was holding. He wasn’t pushy about it, he was very gentle, and he pulled it from Stiles’ grip, closing it one-handed and setting it aside. 

Stiles was still breathing hard, staring down at his empty hands. Derek reached up after setting the book down, his hand brushing along Stiles’ cheek lightly before shifting to the back of his neck and pulling him in. Stiles clenched his eyes shut when he felt his forehead rest against Derek’s shoulder, willing himself to hold it together. 

Derek’s sigh was full body, one hand still on the back of Stiles’ neck, and the other wrapping around him tightly. Stiles brought his empty hands up, intent on gripping the front of Derek’s shirt, but he wasn’t wearing one, so he just held onto Derek’s shoulders for dear life, digging his nails into his skin. 

“What good am I if I can’t even help the one person who matters?” he demanded. 

The hand behind his neck moved into his hair, Derek tightening his grip slightly. He could feel the Werewolf’s face burying itself in his neck, and when Derek exhaled, it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

He was holding him like he was trying to insist Stiles _was_ helping him. And people had told him so, people had said he was helping Derek. He knew he was, in his own way. But he wanted to _help_ him. To free him. To take away the reminder of Kate. 

“I can do it,” Stiles insisted again, tightening his grip on Derek’s shoulders. “I can fix it, Derek. I can.” 

Derek shifted slightly then, and Stiles could feel his lips pressing against his head, just past his temple in his hair. He inhaled deeply once, then let it out slowly and pulled back, bringing both hands up to cradle Stiles’ face. The smile he offered him just made Stiles feel worse, because he didn’t _want_ Derek to pretend he was okay, when he knew he wasn’t. 

He felt a light tap to his left cheek, then Derek let his hands slide off his face and stood up. He held one hand out to Stiles, raising his eyebrows, and waited. 

There was no point in staying awake now. He’d had a temper tantrum, he’d probably broken Satomi’s coffee table, he’d _definitely_ woken up Mason. He was done. 

Sighing, he grabbed Derek’s hand and let him haul him to his feet. “Sorry I shoved you,” he muttered. 

Derek just snorted and rolled his eyes, like that was a stupid thing to apologize for. 

They headed into the bedroom together and Stiles grabbed his pyjamas so he could use the bathroom and change out. Once he’d brushed his teeth and left his clothes in a heap on the floor—because he still hadn’t learned how to pick up after himself—he headed back to the bedroom. 

Derek was sitting up in bed waiting for him and Stiles shut the door before crawling over him to his side and falling back. When Derek lay down, Stiles curled into him and felt the blankets get tugged up over them. 

He wasn’t going to give up. This was a minor setback. He’d take a day, get his head back on straight, and try again. 

He was going to figure this out.

He _was_. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- More Kate mentions in here. Nothing about Derek's time with Kate is described in detail, but I know that the canon relationship makes some people uncomfortable so I always feel the need to mention when what she did to Derek is brought up.
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Harry Potter (c) J.K. Rowling  
> \- Treasure Island (c) Robert Louis Stevenson  
> \- Star Wars (c) George Lucas


	13. Lizard-Faced Asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, you thirsty people! -jazz hands at chapter title-

“Happy anniversary!” Stiles proclaimed loudly, holding a cupcake out to Derek. 

The Werewolf looked up from where he was stringing his guitar and cocked an eyebrow at him, gaze shifting from the mini cake to Stiles’ face. 

“It has been exactly one year since you Spark-napped me. Gotta say, the accommodations have really improved since then. Also, you talk more. It’s kind of annoying.” 

Derek tried to swipe at him but Stiles just laughed and danced out of his reach, still holding the cupcake out. “Come on, take it, or I’ll eat it myself.” 

Rolling his eyes, Derek obediently put the guitar down and reached out for it. Stiles immediately shoved it in his face, then cackled maniacally while backpedalling when Derek came at him for revenge. 

“Get away! No!” Stiles jumped over a random bush and held one hand up to make a shield when Derek’s frosting-covered hand came too close to his face. It instead smeared across the invisible barrier, Stiles doing his best supervillain laugh at having foiled Derek’s plans. 

“Victory is mine!” Stiles proclaimed, thrusting both fists in the air. 

Derek was licking frosting off his fingers, trying to look annoyed, and failing miserably. He had cake and frosting all over his face and in his beard. 

“You are so sexy right now,” Stiles informed him. “Like, peak sexdom right here. Wow. You could have _all_ the girls right now with that look.” 

Derek gave him a very clear, “Fuck you” look and turned to head back into the main house so he could wash up. A few of the others were laughing and catcalling, but it was obvious everyone was just having a good time. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Mason said, coming up beside him with his hands in his pockets. 

Stiles grinned at him, giving him a brief once-over, and pleased with what he saw. Mason had really been filling out lately. He looked healthier, since he was actually allowed to _eat_ now, and Stiles was thrilled with how good he looked. He still wasn’t entirely comfortable with people bigger than him, but he’d at least started reacting better around Derek again. 

Made sense, considering how fucking _long_ they’d been stuck in that house together. Not that Stiles minded, he was used to living with Derek, but it felt weird having Mason around all the time because Stiles felt like he always looked at them funny whenever they did—well, anything. 

It was weird. Stiles was looking forward to going home.

Which was why he was so happy. Because Peter had officially called off the alarm, not only because the people lurking had given up, but because Stiles was doing exceptionally well with his magic, now. 

They were finally going _home_! To the loft! With the bed, and the couch, and the laundry machine, and the _vault_. Though the vault wasn’t in the loft but _fuck_ , Stiles was so fucking excited! 

He’d wanted to pack up and leave the second Peter had given the go-ahead, but Derek had quite literally grabbed the back of his shirt to stop him from racing off and given him a look. Because he was right. 

It would be rude to just immediately pack up and leave after everything Satomi’s pack had done for them. They had to be polite, much as Stiles was chomping at the bit to go home. So they’d very calmly gone to the house to let her know they were safe to go home again, and had said they would be leaving _soon_. 

He was glad that Derek had insisted they not rush out, because Satomi looked sad, but appreciated the heads up and they all agreed they’d head out on Sunday morning so that the pack had time to say goodbye. 

They’d been there for almost three months, and there were a lot of friendships made. Derek actually knew how to play the entire beginning of Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple. It sounded more twangy on an acoustic guitar, but Stiles still liked it, and he loved that Reed and Derek had bonded over their guitars. 

He and Heather were a little off since their blowout, but they still chatted at dinner and he still thought she was a fun person, even if he didn’t think this was a friendship for the ages. And Stiles had made a bunch of friends with Satomi’s packmates. They all knew what he was, and they were all really good about it. 

It was nice. He was going to miss them. But he knew they would come back and visit. And Stiles had already invited Satomi out to Beacon Hills at least four times since confirming they were leaving. Peter had been a little pissed Stiles had just told her where he lived but realistically, if she was going to do anything malicious, she would’ve done it by now. She’d had Stiles in her grasp for three months, he was pretty sure she wasn’t a threat. 

“I’m just excited to go home,” Stiles said, grinning at Mason. 

“Yeah.” Mason looked out at the rest of the pack, milling about outside. They were in the ‘backyard’ part of the big house having a barbecue. It was the farewell dinner since a few members of the pack wouldn’t be available over the next few days and they didn’t want to miss out. They weren’t leaving until the weekend, which was still three days away, but Stiles was glad they were having a big thing with the whole pack. 

“Figure out what you wanna do yet?” Stiles asked him.

Mason shrugged. He was turning eighteen in two weeks, which meant he didn’t have to worry about Ennis being able to take advantage of him anymore. Stiles knew Mason liked Satomi, and that he really wanted to stay, but he also knew that the Nephilim wanted to stick with Stiles. 

He’d told him before Stiles knew they were going home that Stiles was the first person to treat him like he wasn’t a freak. In a way, it was because Stiles was a bit of a freak himself. They were the rares of the Supernatural world. While Nephilim were more common than even Banshees and Hellhounds, they were still on the uncommon side. 

Stiles spoke about the others back home a lot, and Mason was usually around when he did. One of the things that Stiles had realized was that they had a lot of rare Supernaturals in their pack. Sure, three wasn’t a _huge_ number, but in the grand scheme of things, having _one_ rare Supernatural in a pack was, well, _rare_. Having _three_ was unheard of. 

He felt like that was partly why Mason was leaning towards going to Beacon Hills. Because their pack already had so many rare Supernaturals in it, he wouldn’t feel like a freak. He would be with people who knew what it was like to be _different_ , even by Supernatural standards. 

But he also knew Mason had really made a place for himself in Satomi’s pack. She was willing to let him stay, and Stiles knew he had a bit of a crush on Brett. He’d already told Mason the choice was his, he could do as he pleased. He still wasn’t good about making his own decisions, and he sometimes looked to Stiles or Satomi to make them for him, but this was one thing that he had to decide for himself. 

He could stay with Satomi. He could come with Derek and Stiles. It was up to him. 

“Still thinking,” Mason said quietly, watching two members of the pack fight at the barbecue, joking and laughing. “I want to stay. But I want to go with you.” 

“You know, you can always change your mind,” Stiles promised. “If you stay and decide you should’ve come with us, you can still come. Same if you come and think you should’ve stayed. You’re not trapped anymore, Mason. You can do whatever you want.” 

He nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I can–I can change my mind.” 

“Of course you can.” Stiles patted his shoulder once. “Ken and Noshiko are happy to have you if you decide to come. Satomi is happy for you to stay. Just do what you want from now on, okay?” 

He slapped him in the back lightly, then moved forward when Derek came back out of the house, having cleaned off his face. He gave Stiles an annoyed look, but the crinkling at the corners of his eyes made it obvious he wasn’t actually annoyed at all. Stiles fell down beside him on the steps leading up to the house, Derek picking his guitar back up and playing Smoke on the Water. 

“You need to learn another song,” Stiles informed him. “I’m gonna get tired of that real quick.” 

Derek just smirked and started over, playing louder. 

“If you break another string, I’m not gonna let you buy new ones.” 

He got nudged for that but Stiles just smiled and leaned back on his elbows, looking out at the pack. He was sad to go and leave them behind, but he also couldn’t wait to get home. 

“Hey Derek?” 

He strummed a chord in answer to show he was listening. 

“I have a lot of mixed feelings about today,” he admitted quietly. “My dad died today.” 

The strumming paused, Derek turning to look at him over his shoulder. 

Stiles offered him a small smile. “It’s never going to be easy, but it’s not as hard as it was. I don’t know. Today’s a good and a bad day. I lost my dad, but I mean, how long would it have taken me to meet you otherwise? And I don’t know if we’d be friends like we are if you hadn’t come into my life when you did. I’m really glad I met you.” 

Derek’s face softened slightly, a smile on his lips. He reached back to shove Stiles in the shoulder lightly, the clearest, “Sap,” Stiles had ever experienced with that one action alone. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to have a moment here, do you mind?” 

Derek held both hands up in surrender, but he was still smiling like Stiles was a huge romantic sap, nevermind that he wasn’t being romantic at all. 

“I’m just saying that, while losing my dad was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through, I’m really glad that you’re the one who was there to help pick up the pieces.” 

The look he got then was unfamiliar. He was pretty good at recognizing all the different looks Derek gave him, but this one was new. He looked... soft. It was the only way to describe it. Derek looked soft, and he reached out one hand, putting it at the back of Stiles’ neck, and tugging him a bit closer. 

Derek closed his eyes and pressed their foreheads together, letting out a small breath, and mouthing two words that Stiles didn’t need to see to recognize. 

“Me too.” 

* * *

**[Cora]**  
wat happened 2 my brother?

Stiles frowned down at the text message, pausing in his chewing and wondering what the hell Cora was talking about. As far as Stiles knew, nothing had happened to Derek. Unless there was something he didn’t know that had transpired in the literal _twenty-seven minutes_ they’d been apart. 

After three months away from the pack, Peter had decided that Mason, Derek and Stiles needed some time apart to reacclimate. Of course, Derek and Stiles would be back at the loft together by the end of the day, but after their return home the previous evening, he’d made it mandatory that they couldn’t see one another again for at _least_ twelve full hours. 

That worked out well for Mason, since he’d slept on Stiles and Derek’s couch the night before, uncomfortable with leaving their side just yet to meet Ken and Noshiko. Derek had dropped him off that morning and they trusted Kira to introduce him around and get him familiar with everyone. It’d probably be a bit overwhelming, but Mason seemed to do okay around women so they were hopeful having Kira as a buffer would help. 

Derek had been relegated to the Hale house, where Cora wanted to spend some quality brother-sister time together—wherein she was probably just going to make fun of him and harass him for the whole time they were together. Siblings sounded great. 

As for Stiles, he was with Peter. Well, and kind of Boyd, since he was in the kitchen working because Peter had brought them to the diner. Stiles was glad to spend the day with Peter, if he was honest. He really liked him, the guy hid his marshmallow gooey centre behind sarcasm and snappy comments. Maybe that was where Derek had learned to keep his gooey middle a secret. 

Stiles had gotten it out of them both, though. It was a talent, apparently. 

“That better not be Derek,” Peter said, sitting down across from Stiles, hands still damp from having washed them in the bathroom. “Surely you two can survive twelve hours without each other.” 

“I mean, can we though?” Stiles asked, smiling slightly. “But no. It’s Cora. She’s asking me what happened to him.” 

“Has she managed to break him already?” Peter asked, amused. He reached for his coffee, taking a sip and watching Stiles while he texted back. 

“Maybe?” he offered. 

**[Stiles]**  
did something happen to him?  
**[Stiles]**  
srsly he’s only been out of my sight for half an hour  
**[Stiles]**  
tell me you didn’t break him, i can’t get a replacement model, you know

 **[Cora]**  
hilarious  
**[Cora]**  
like n e 1 would WANT a replacement

 **[Stiles]**  
HEY!  
**[Stiles]**  
I WOULD!  
**[Stiles]**  
but no srsly is he ok? 

“It’s rude to text at the table,” Peter informed him. 

“I’m just texting Cora,” Stiles insisted.

“About Derek. The two of you are nauseating, when’s the wedding?” 

“Haha,” Stiles said sarcastically, making a face at Peter and shoving another bite of eggs into his mouth while he waited on a response. When he finally got one, he frowned and put his fork down, wiping his hand on his pants before typing out a reply. 

**[Cora]**  
were there n e hot babes in this other pack????

 **[Stiles]**  
i mean, yeah?  
**[Stiles]**  
some  
**[Stiles]**  
why? 

**[Cora]**  
OKAY  
**[Cora]**  
not that im TRYING to listen  
**[Cora]**  
but D is jerking off rn  
**[Cora]**  
its like  
**[Cora]**  
super uncomfortable  
**[Cora]**  
he couldnt have done that at home?????  
**[Cora]**  
i use that shower 2!!!!

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up at the texts and he didn’t know if he should laugh, be horrified, or thrilled. On the one hand, it was hilarious that Derek’s first act upon arriving at his old home was to take a shower so he could jerk off in private. Like somehow doing it at the loft meant Stiles could smell it? Stiles wasn’t a Werewolf, and the bathroom door closed, Derek could jerk off whenever he wanted. 

He was kind of horrified because there were enough things he knew about Derek that he didn’t really need to picture, and considering he’d seen Derek’s dick numerous time, he was trying so hard _not_ to—nope. Too late. He had a visual now. It was burned into his brain. Not a bad thing, because Derek was hot, and he had a very nice dick, but it felt weird having _impure_ thoughts about his best friend. 

And on the flip-side, very awkwardly and weirdly, Stiles was actually kind of thrilled to hear Derek was jerking off. Not that he ever tried to listen or anything, but he was pretty much one-hundred percent positive Derek had never once touched himself in all the time they’d known one another. It helped that Derek showered with the door open, but really, with all the time they spent together, he felt like he’d have known if Derek jerked off. 

Stiles jerked off every now and then. If he got horny, sure, he’d go and beat one off in the bathroom or whatever. He knew Derek could smell it, but whatever. He was a nineteen year old guy, he was allowed to beat off. Derek though? He didn’t ever do that. 

Honestly, Stiles had suspected it was because of what had happened with Kate. He thought maybe things had been worse than he wanted to really think about, and it had killed any form of sex-drive Derek had. So while it felt a little weird to be happy Derek was jerking off right now, he was glad. Because it meant Derek was actually horny right now, and for some reason, knowing Kate hadn’t won was just—it felt so good knowing she hadn’t won.

 **[Stiles]**  
have fun standing in your brothers spunk

 **[Cora]**  
FUCK YOU!  
**[Cora]**  
i am BLEACHING the entire bathroom!

Stiles laughed and put his phone away, because Peter would eventually take it from him and this was a young people conversation. Also Peter was Derek’s uncle, and it’d be weird if he knew Cora was complaining about her brother jerking off in the bathroom. Some things weren’t meant to be shared with the man that was basically their father. 

“So,” Stiles said, picking his fork back up, “how are you?” 

“Overworked, underpaid, and babysitting way too many children.” 

“Aren’t you your own boss?” 

“Irrelevant,” Peter insisted, picking up his coffee and taking a sip of it. “Your teenage drama will have me white-haired and in the grave in no time, have some sympathy.” 

Stiles just grinned at that and took another bite of his food. He knew Peter was just shooting the shit, but it was nice that he could have conversations like this with him. Peter was protective like Derek, but didn’t hover the same way. Not that Stiles minded the hovering so much anymore, but it was still nice to have some breathing room, even if all he thought about the entire time they were eating was what he should bring home for Derek later. 

He felt like Derek was never far from his thoughts because he spent so much time with him. He wondered if everyone in his pack thought they were together, too. No one ever said anything or asked any questions, but that didn’t mean they weren’t thinking it. Then again, they knew better than anyone else what their relationship was, and Peter was the one who’d bought the loft with the one bed, so really, it’d be weird if they thought they _were_ together, knowing what they do. 

Peter snapped his fingers in Stiles’ face when he realized he was distracted and he hastily focussed back on the conversation. He tried not to let his mind stray, but it felt weird not having Derek with him, so he kept thinking about him. 

He wondered what Derek was doing with Cora. He was probably done with the shower by now, and Cora was probably freaking out at him about the jerking off. But maybe they were sitting and watching a movie now. Maybe they’d ordered pizza or Chinese food, and were just hanging out together. 

Stiles kept instinctively reaching out for Derek out of habit, and he wondered if Derek was doing the same while with Cora. It’d be kind of embarrassing if he wasn’t, not that Stiles would _ever_ tell Derek what he was doing, but he also kind of wanted to know if it was just him. 

He hoped not. He hoped Derek was thinking about him. That was a weird thing to hope for, but he still did. 

Peter caught him up on what happened while he and Derek were gone, and Stiles managed to pay attention. They spoke a bit about Stiles’ magic, and he very proudly said he was actually doing really well. He could perform most spells without trying too hard, and though he still lost control every now and then, he was getting better at it. The only major magic he had left to learn was Alchemy, but Peter insisted that was easy to learn from books. Alchemy was kind of a dying artform anyway, and after the whole Ennis debacle, Stiles felt like Peter wasn’t willing to risk another teacher.

They’d just finished their second round of coffee when someone walked into the diner, bypassing the hostess, and walked right up to Peter. He was in the middle of sipping his coffee, and Stiles knew he saw the man standing beside him, but he pretended not to notice him. 

The man waited, though. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, and he was perfectly happy standing there beside Peter, waiting to be acknowledged. Stiles looked from the man to Peter and back again, wondering what was going on.

Nobody else was reacting to his presence, as if he weren’t even there. Stiles figured it didn’t concern the other patrons, so they were ignoring him, but he did see Boyd glance out of the kitchen with a small frown. 

“Good coffee,” Peter said, setting his mug down, still not acknowledging the man beside him. “I was thinking we could go for a leisurely walk later, if you’re up for it, Stiles. I have a few things I’d like to discuss with you about the pack.” 

It seemed the man had gotten tired of waiting, because Peter was making absolutely _no move_ to acknowledge him. He cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Peter Hale?” 

Peter didn’t turn to look at him, he just cupped one hand over his mouth like he was telling a secret, and very loudly asked Stiles, “Is he still there?” 

Stiles glanced at the man, who was still staring at Peter, then back at the Werewolf. “Um, yeah.” 

“And here I was hoping I was having a very vivid daymare.” Peter’s exasperated sigh was so similar to Derek’s that Stiles almost smiled. 

Almost. He didn’t, because it was clear Peter was about to do that thing where he hid hostility behind a cheerful smile. 

He turned to the man beside him, blinked a few times, then said, “I didn’t see you there. Was hoping that was permanent, my not seeing you.” 

“Mr. Hale, I am here represen—”

“I know who you represent,” Peter cut off, his smile cold and tone icy. “I recall sending you a very colourful response to your last email. I believe the words ‘fuck you’ were included somewhere in the body. Poor choice of word, really, but nothing can really express that distinct level of disdain as the word ‘fuck,’ wouldn’t you say?” 

The suit didn’t seem deterred. He just bulled on like Peter wasn’t swearing at him. “Mr. Hale, my client is willing to offer you a substantial sum of money. More than you could ever even imagine.” 

“Are you quite certain?” Peter asked pleasantly, folding his hands together and still smiling. “I can think of a pretty high number.”

“Name your price,” the suit said. “Adrian Harris is willing to pay it.” 

Peter was silent for a long moment, and Stiles felt like the man beside them thought he was thinking it over—whatever ‘it’ was. Stiles knew him better, and could tell Peter was trying to see if he could make him leave by being annoying enough. 

The guy was apparently very patient, because Stiles was fidgeting within seconds, and he ended up pulling out his phone to time how long Peter stayed silent. 

At the seven minute mark, it looked like Peter had had enough of the game. 

“Tempting,” he finally said. “However, irrelevant. As I mentioned to you, and your client, multiple times,” Peter leaned in closer, flashed blue eyes and let fangs peek out. “He. Is. Not. For. _Sale_.” 

Stiles froze in putting his phone back at the words. 

Peter hadn’t said _it_ was not for sale.

He’d said _he_. 

As in a person. 

As in _Stiles_. 

The suit let out a frustrated sigh. “Mr. Hale, be reasonable. My client—”

“I cannot _possibly_ dumb it down for you any further,” Peter interrupted. “I told you to stop contacting me. I told you to stop contacting my pack. I told you _not_ to enter my territory. Yet, here you are. Coming here, in this diner, interrupting my coffee with someone I care for a great deal, asking me to sell you something that is not for sale.” 

For the first time since entering the diner, the man shifted his gaze to Stiles. He obviously knew he was there, because it wasn’t like Stiles hadn’t been seated across from Peter this entire time. Stiles wondered if he hadn’t thought he was the person in question, or maybe he knew and didn’t consider Stiles worthy of acknowledgment because he was a _thing_ and not a _person_ like Peter was suggesting. 

“My client is willing to offer you something no other Collector will,” the man said, tone a bit sharper when he looked back at Peter. “The Spark will be well cared for. Safe, protected. My client has state of the art security. Nobody will be able to harm him. You’ll be free to visit whenever you please.” 

“Visit,” Peter said loudly, half-laughing. “I can _visit_ someone I care about whenever I please. That you’ll have locked away in a glass cage for your client’s viewing pleasure. That you’ll treat like an object in a museum.” Peter folded his hands together and rested his chin on them, eyes still electric blue and Werewolf features slowly becoming more pronounced. 

Stiles saw the suit shift nervously out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Peter. He’d never seen him look quite so menacing before. 

“Stiles,” Peter said, eyes still locked on the man. “Would you like to earn me a large sum of money and sit all pretty in a glass cage for the rest of your life?” 

He wasn’t sure if that was an actual question or not, but he answered anyway. “Uh, not really, no.” 

“Aw, too bad,” Peter said. At first, Stiles thought he was speaking to _him_ , but then realized he was talking to the suit. “Looks like the answer’s no from him, too. Now leave, and let me enjoy my coffee in peace.” 

“Mr. Hale—”

“He said he’s not for sale.” 

Stiles jumped and whipped around. A man he didn’t know was half-standing from his seat in the booth behind him. He looked huge, like he did some kind of construction, and was actually a little scary-looking. 

“You hard of hearing, or do you need him to say it again?” the guy in the booth asked. 

The suit looked startled, like he hadn’t thought anyone else was listening. He straightened and regained his composure quickly, eying the man briefly before speaking, like he was weighing his words carefully. Like Peter wasn’t scary, but this other dude somehow was. 

“My client is willing to compensate the town for its loss, as—”

“I don’t think he heard you, Sal,” a woman at the counter interrupted. Stiles turned to gape at her, because he had no fucking idea what was going on. “Maybe you should say it again. Loudly. With your fists.” 

“Maybe I will,” construction guy said, easing his way out of the booth. 

The suit took a step away from him, looking concerned. He glanced around the diner, so Stiles did, too. He was surprised to see everyone watching. Some people were on their feet. Others were still seated but sending dirty looks at the man, like he was interrupting their easy morning meal. 

“Stiles,” construction guy—Sal, apparently—said while walking forward, “is not. For sale.” He jabbed a big, meaty finger into the suit’s chest, making him stumble back a step. “You tell your Adrian Harris douchebag that _anyone_ comes here again, he’ll regret it. Now go to the counter, order Peter and Stiles another round of coffee, and get the _fuck_ out of our town.” 

When he jabbed at him again, he did so hard enough that the suit stumbled back a few steps, almost falling into the counter. The woman who was sitting there shoved him away surprisingly violently for how tiny she looked. 

The suit straightened, looking a little ruffled around the edges. He glanced nervously around the diner while smoothing out his suit, then cleared his throat and moved to the counter. Stiles gaped while he pulled his wallet out, dropped money on the counter, and then booked it out of the diner like his ass was on fire. 

“Sorry for interrupting your conversation, Mr. Hale.” 

“Quite all right, Sal,” Peter said with a genuine smile. “I’ve got your meal covered. Say hi to Beth for me.” 

The guy nodded a thanks, called farewell to Boyd, then left the diner. Once the door shut behind him, Stiles heard the woman at the counter muttering about rude sons of bitches coming into their town before she turned back to her meal and the book she’d been reading. Noise started up again as everyone went back to their meals, and Stiles looked around incredulously, wondering what the fuck had just happened. 

A waitress appeared beside them, setting two more coffees down in front of them. “Courtesy of the terrified gentleman in the horrible suit,” she said with a kind smile at Stiles, then went back to the counter.

He almost twisted his neck trying to watch her walk away, horrendously confused, then turned back to Peter. 

“What just happened?” he demanded. 

Peter looked amused while he picked his fresh cup of coffee up. His features had returned to normal, but his eyes were still glowing blue, like he was pissed off and couldn’t control it. 

“This might come as a shock to you, Stiles, but people care about you.” He set his mug down on a napkin, shifting his empty plate aside and leaning back in his seat. “They know you’ve been off training, but a lot of people approached me over the past couple of weeks to ensure you were all right. They’d noticed the people in town looking for you, and you were gone for an exceptionally long time.” 

“They don’t even know me,” Stiles insisted. 

“Beacon Hills is not a very big town, little Spark. A lot of them knew your mother. A lot of them owe your mother, one way or another. They stare at you sometimes, and they might think about how they would use you if given the opportunity, as most people sometimes imagine things they would never do, but the people here respect who your mother was, and who _you_ are. They won’t let people come here demanding you be handed over without a fight.” 

Stiles turned in his seat to glance at the door, even though Sal had left a while ago by now. He just... hadn’t really thought about it. Whenever he went out with Derek, sure he knew people recognized him. They all stared, so he _knew_ they recognized him. But he hadn’t really thought much on their opinion of him. 

There had been that lady at the flower shop, who’d given them flowers for free. And Stiles knew that whenever he and Derek went to get falafels, they always got extras free of charge. And Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he or Derek had ever paid for cookies from the _amazing_ bakery a few blocks down. 

He hadn’t really given much thought to Beacon Hills as a whole. He just knew it was where he wanted to be because his pack was here. He hadn’t realized that the people wanted him to feel like it was his home, too. 

“Thank you,” he blurted out, rather loudly. A few people glanced at him, but no one said anything. He saw the woman at the counter smile, but she didn’t turn. He felt a flush creeping up his neck and just grabbed his coffee, taking a huge sip. 

It was hot, and burned him instantly, but he was embarrassed and he needed a distraction. 

“So,” Stiles said once he’d set the mug back down, “he’s been emailing you?” 

“People know the Spark’s been found. News travels fast in the underworld,” Peter said bitterly, like the thought disgusted him. “It’s no secret we Hales are descendants of the Gevaudan line, and my name is... rather well known. I’m always the first to hear about requests to purchase you. I’m thinking of adding a disclaimer in my signature, what do you think would be the most obnoxious font to ensure people see it?” 

“Comic Sans?” Stiles offered. 

Peter smiled at receiving an answer, nodded to himself, and took another sip of his coffee. 

They finished up in the diner, Peter paying for Sal’s meal as promised, and then headed out. They got into his car and Peter drove them to the store, since Derek was relegated to the Hale house for bonding time and thus wouldn’t be able to get groceries. Besides, Stiles didn’t get to go out much, so he was enjoying the expedition, even if it was just to get food from the store. 

Peter let Stiles hang off the cart like an annoying teenager while they went through the aisles. He’d grown out of his Coke phase and was now into his ice cream phase, so he checked out the different selections while they passed through the aisle but was going to come back for it later. Peter told him to take up a sport because he was getting fat. 

Stiles shocked him two aisles later and then ran away with the cart, laughing like an idiot. 

“How does my nephew put up with you?” Peter demanded, still looking offended. 

“Well, for one thing, he doesn’t call me fat, so jot that down,” Stiles said with a grin while wheeling through the pet food aisle, using the cart like a scooter. “For another, I’m a fucking _delight_ to be around.” 

“Is that what you are?” Peter asked, feigning surprise. “I was thinking more along the lines of a headache, but I suppose it makes sense you’d have delusions of grandeur spending time with someone who fawns over you all the time.” 

“Derek is my favouritest blanket,” Stiles informed him. “You’re just jealous you don’t get to use him as a heater, admit it.” 

“Oh yes, dreadfully jealous.” 

Stiles just grinned, turning the corner out of the pet food aisle, but he paused when he caught sight of bird food. There was a picture of a caged bird on the front of the packaging, and it made him think about what Peter had said back in the diner. It made him think about what the suit had said. 

His client was a Collector. Evidently of anything rare and coveted. Like Stiles. 

Which meant people. 

He stopped so abruptly that Peter actually walked into him. Stiles didn’t care, he just whipped around. 

“Peter, you need to take the deal.” 

The Werewolf frowned. “What deal? Is there a special?” He looked around, like Stiles was referring to a good price on bread or something. 

“No, the-the _deal_! The guy! Adrian Harris! You need to take the deal!” 

When Peter turned back to him, he had the most concerned look on his face Stiles had ever seen. When he opened his mouth to say something, Stiles rushed on. 

“Peter, this guy, he’s a Collector, right? If he wanted to collect _me_ , then he probably has other Supernaturals locked up in his crystal vault, or whatever. If you take the deal, I can get in there. I can _help_ them.” 

Peter put his hands together, as if in prayer, and pressed them against his lips while staring at Stiles. It looked like he was wondering if Stiles had gotten a concussion somehow between the two aisles. 

He closed his eyes, let out a slow breath, then lowered his hands. “Stiles—”

“Peter, everyone has like, a _thing_ , right? I helped Mason, what if _this_ is my thing?” he demanded, motioning himself. “What if helping rare Supernaturals is _my_ thing? You just have to take me there, make the exchange, and wait for me down the road.” 

“Do you realize how crazy you sound right now?” Peter asked him. “Stiles, if this man is trying this hard to buy you, it’s because he can _contain_ you.” 

Stiles pointed a finger at him. “He can contain a teenager who has no idea what he’s doing. I’m not that teenager anymore. I _know_ what I’m doing now.” 

“You _barely_ know what you’re doing,” Peter argued. “Stiles—”

“Peter,” he interrupted. “Come _on_. I can do this! It’ll be like, my first _real_ test as a full-fledged Spark.” 

“You’re _not_ a full-fledged Spark,” Peter insisted, tone firm. “Stiles, a month ago, you were still insisting you couldn’t ever be what people expected you to be. Now you think you can take on a Collector who has state of the art equipment designed _specifically_ for you?” 

“If I’m the last Spark, how do we even know what he has will hold me?” Stiles argued. 

Apparently he’d stumped Peter, because the man just stared at him, face going a little red, like he was refraining from yelling at him, but only because he didn’t know _what_ to yell at him. 

“Look, I can do this with or without your help.” Stiles shrugged. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to find Adrian Harris online. I could Google him right now.” He went to pull out his phone, but Peter grabbed his wrist to stop him. 

“Do you realize how bad things will get if this blows up in your face?” Peter hissed. 

“I do,” Stiles said, staring him square in the eye. “I _do_ know. But Peter, you didn’t _see_ Mason. And I just saw what happened in the diner, with that guy. We’re not people to them, we’re _things_. That’s not okay. I don’t want to wake up one day and find out Lydia is missing. Or Parrish. Or anyone else. If there are Collectors out there keeping humans as objects because they’re _rare_ , well I’m the most powerful one there is. And if I have to-to do something stupid to help them, then so be it.” 

“And what about Derek?” Peter asked. 

Stiles tensed immediately, and he hated that Peter looked smug about it. Like he knew he’d said the magic word by invoking Derek’s name. Because—Stiles had actually not thought about Derek. Which was a first for him since, well, _ever_. 

Derek would be furious. No, he would be _livid_. No, he would be—whatever trumped livid. He would be the highest form of rage that existed. He would be so, _so_ mad at him. Like, volcano eruption levels of mad. He’d probably never let Stiles out of his sight ever again. Like, _ever_. Stiles would probably have to pee with the door open. 

Hell, maybe Derek would _handcuff_ them together. 

He remembered how mad Derek had been with the whole Ennis thing, and Stiles hadn’t even really been in danger back then. He’d been invisible, and Derek had been right outside. If anything had gone amiss, he had backup. He would’ve been fine. 

But this was different. This would be Stiles, on his own, inside a highly secured building. No backup, no plan B, and no way out if anything went wrong. All he had was his magic, which he _was_ good at now, but... 

His mind went back to what Mason had looked like the first time he’d seen him. How _good_ he looked now. How the kid _still_ shied away from people when they came too close sometimes. How he didn’t like when people got loud, or threw things. How he still struggled to make decisions because he didn’t know what punishment was waiting for him at the other end. 

There were probably so many more people like that. Young, old, didn’t matter. What if he got to this Harris guy’s house and found an old granny in a cage who’d been kept as a pet since she was a child? He wouldn’t be able to handle that. 

“We just...” Stiles trailed off, voice going a bit high when he finished off, “won’t tell him.” 

Peter’s smug smile fell right off his face. “We won’t tell him?” he deadpanned. 

“Yup.” Stiles popped the ‘p’ and poked at Peter’s shoulder. “We won’t... you know...” he motioned between the two of them, lowering his voice awkwardly. “Just between us.” He pressed his finger to his lips. “Secret.” 

Peter did _not_ look impressed. 

“And how do you propose we do this without telling Derek?” 

“You know, I’m glad you asked,” Stiles said, pointing his finger at Peter, and drawing a blank. How _was_ he supposed to do this without Derek knowing? It wasn’t like he would agree to another twelve hours apart, he was sure Derek was having heart palpitations without Stiles in sight. 

To be honest, Stiles felt really out of sorts without Derek there, too. He really hoped he wasn’t getting dependent, because Derek was his friend, not his fucking _nanny_.

Though kind of also his nanny, he still picked up Stiles’ clothes when he left them in a heap in the bathroom. He should really stop doing that. 

“Oh, oh!” Stiles snapped his fingers. “We do it tonight.” 

“Tonight?” Peter deadpanned. “Are you insane?” 

“No, see, it’s _perfect_! We just—we say we’re going to a late movie. Like, eight o’clock or something. It won’t be out until ten so, you know, if you bring me to Harris at say, six or something, it gives me time to do my thing and get out.” Stiles mimicked running with his hands. It was more of an awkward dog paddle, but he tried. 

“And if something goes wrong, I’m the one who explains it to Derek, gets murdered, and then has to come back to life to help rescue your dumb ass.” 

Stiles pointed a finger at him. “That’s only if something goes wrong. If it goes right, we go home, and Derek is none the wiser.” 

“Except we’d have a group of new Supernaturals that appeared overnight.” Peter crossed his arms. “And where exactly are they going to be staying, your new friends?” 

Stiles pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows slightly. Peter gave him the most unimpressed look Stiles had ever seen. Wow, he was good at those looks. 

They stood there, at the end of the pet food aisle, for what felt like an eternity. Stiles could see Peter weighing the pros and cons in his head. It looked like he was trying to figure out every single thing he could possibly do to stop Stiles from going through with this, and coming up empty. 

Really, the only way to stop him short of tying him down was to tell Derek. But telling Derek wouldn’t work either, because Peter knew as well as Stiles did that if he argued hard enough, Derek would eventually cave—and then get like, thirty ulcers during the entire operation. But if they just _did_ it, and it went well, Derek would be pissed, but at least no ulcers. 

Peter also knew that he didn’t have the option of just saying no and leaving it at that, because it was entirely likely Stiles would attempt this on his own if no one backed him up, and that would just make matters _worse_ for everybody. Mostly Stiles, but also everyone who cared about him. 

After another few minutes of silence, Peter’s expression set into something angry and yet defeated, and he said, “If my nephew kills me, _you’re_ the one I’m haunting.”

“Deal!” Stiles said quickly, before Peter changed his mind. “I can live with that.” 

“Oh trust me,” Peter said darkly, moving Stiles aside so he could grab the cart handle and giving him a dangerous look, “if I’m the one haunting you, you won’t be living long.” 

* * *

“Derek is going to kill me,” Peter said, for probably the millionth time. “Derek is going to kill me in the worst possible ways. My nephew is very creative, I would imagine he can come up with many ways to kill me that I can’t even fathom.” 

“If you don’t shut up, _I’m_ gonna kill you,” Stiles muttered, annoyed. 

“Derek is going to kill me,” Peter repeated sharply. “And if anything happens to you, I’m going to kill me, too.” 

“Nice to know you care.”

“Shut up.” 

Stiles obeyed, but only because he could tell they were getting closer to the door. Evidently they’d had to be smart about this, because if Peter showed up with Stiles in tow, Adrian Harris would probably get suspicious. They’d spent the better part of an hour coming up with a plan, had involved Deaton, and were now executing said plan while ensuring Derek thought they were at a movie. 

If they didn’t pull this off, Stiles was positive Peter was going to die, and he would never hear the end of it. 

Also he’d be handcuffed to Derek until they died, which would make taking a shit super awkward. They were close, but not _that_ close. 

Peter drove up to the front gate of what Stiles assumed was a large, lavish mansion. He had to assume, because he was slumped in the passenger seat with his eyes closed pretending to be unconscious. He’d been pretending for the past half hour, because that was part of the plan. 

They’d left town to head for Mr. Harris’ place—thankfully within driving distance—and had stopped at a restaurant he apparently frequented. Peter had made a big show of dumping something into Stiles’ water while he wasn’t looking, trusting the rich fucks in the place not to comment. Which they didn’t. Probably thought he was just some creep trying to date rape a teenager, which apparently was fine with millionaires. 

Assholes. 

Either way, Stiles had made sure to look sufficiently unsteady on his feet when they headed out, and then proceed to pass out the instant they got in the car. Had to make a big show of it, otherwise no one would believe it. 

Peter had then returned inside—which was the part of the plan he’d _hated_ because, Spark alone in the car outside—to ask where Adrian Harris lived. He’d been given directions, and then had returned to the car to get them on the road. 

And that was how Stiles found himself pretending to be passed out for half an hour, listening to Peter talk to someone through an intercom at the gate. 

“Yes, my name is Peter Hale. I’m here to see Adrian Harris?” 

_“I’m sorry, Mr. Harris isn’t available at the moment.”_

“You better make him available, because if he doesn’t want the Spark, I’ve got plenty of other buyers.” 

There was a short pause, likely the person on the other end calling up to the boss, and a moment later the gates opened. Peter called a jovial thanks and rolled up his window while he drove up to the house. 

“Are you absolutely sure?” Peter asked, voice tense. “Stiles, this isn’t a game. This isn’t something to fuck around with.” 

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted, trying to move his lips as little as possible.

“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” Peter hissed, but it sounded like he was speaking to himself, so Stiles didn’t say anything. “My family swore an oath. I broke it. Didn’t want anything to do with it. Then I got back on board. I reformed the bond. I agreed to protect you. Now I’m handing you over to a Collector. Because you’re stubborn. And an idiot. This is idiotic. Derek is going to kill me, bring me back to life, and kill me _again_.”

“Probably more than once,” Stiles offered helpfully. 

“Shut up, Stiles.” Peter stopped the car, let out a breath, then climbed out. “Mr. Harris!” He slammed the door but Stiles didn’t move. He couldn’t really hear much through the car door, but Peter was loud, so he had at least one side of the conversation. 

Besides, he already knew what was being said. Evidently, Mr. Harris was going to ask about the change of heart. It was an easy sell, because Peter had been receiving emails at work, which were monitored, and he couldn’t very well be honest about his desire to get rid of Stiles on a public server. He also hesitated to contact Mr. Harris from his personal email, because if Stiles suddenly went missing, Peter’s phone and email would be the first thing the police would search. 

Besides, Stiles had been out of town, so he wasn’t going to touch base until after his return, which was literally yesterday. He’d been planning on getting in touch, but then his stupid lackey had shown up in a public diner in the middle of town asking for a price. What was Peter supposed to do? He couldn’t very well agree to anything with so many witnesses. 

And the boy was so _stupid_ , too. Peter had offered a fancy meal, and he’d been so excited and eager he’d followed along. Nobody knew he was leaving town, because Peter was supposed to have dropped him off back at his place to wait on his nephew to return. People would just think Stiles had gone missing after Peter had dropped him off and before Derek had gotten home. 

Everybody wins. 

“He’s sedated, then?” Mr. Harris’ voice asked, clearly closer to the car since he came through loud and clear. 

“I gave him something at dinner. Should last at least another hour.” 

“They say he’s not fully come into his power, is that true?” 

“Dreadful at it,” Peter said. Stiles felt like that was a personal jab, because he was really laying it on thick. Stiles was good now, thank you very much! Not _great_ , but _good_! “Can barely do anything. Really, it’s a waste. But he _is_ the last of his kind. Very valuable.” 

“Indeed.” Mr. Harris snapped his fingers. “Take the Spark while Mr. Hale and I come to an agreement on the price. I expect you’ll want a wire transfer?” 

They moved out of range before Peter replied and Stiles almost forgot he was meant to be unconscious when his door opened and he tried to stop himself from falling out. Thankfully he remembered at the last second and just went with it, glad someone caught him before he hit the ground because that would’ve _hurt_. 

His heart was slamming in his chest when someone picked him up and threw him over their shoulder like a fucking sack of potatoes. This plan suddenly seemed entirely stupid, but it was kind of too late to back out, now. He was already out of the car and Peter had been led off somewhere else.

Shit, he hoped Peter wasn’t about to get shot or anything. Then he’d _really_ get haunted. 

Stiles tried to keep track of where he was being brought, but the guy turned a lot of corners and went down at least _three_ separate flights of stairs. He figured it wasn’t a big deal, if shit hit the fan, he’d blast a hole through the wall.

He could do that. Stiles exploded trees, he could explode walls. Probably. 

Hopefully. 

_Man_ , was this _ever_ a bad idea, Derek was going to fucking _kill_ him! 

The guy carrying him stopped and he heard a series of beeps, then whirring sounds, and then a door opened loudly. He wanted to peek open an eye and take a look, but he didn’t know if there was anyone behind him, so he didn’t risk it. 

He heard another series of beeps, a loud clang, and then another door opened. He wasn’t expecting to be dropped so abruptly and he almost let out a shout, but managed to swallow it down when he hit the ground. Fuck, it felt like _concrete_ , what the hell. Hadn’t anyone told him not to damage the fucking goods? Christ. 

The door was slammed shut, locks whirring loudly into place, and then the guard’s footsteps receded. 

Stiles stayed motionless for a few minutes, listening to the sounds around him. He mostly just heard a ventilation fan, and not much else. He tried to stay still for as long as he could, but if he wasted too much time playing possum, it would fuck with their timeline and Peter would panic and do something stupid.

Like tell Derek. 

God, Derek was _really_ going to kill him. Fuck. 

He probably wouldn’t get a Werewolf furnace for like, a month. Good thing it was summer. 

Derek was so _comfy_ though... 

_Focus,_ Stiles insisted silently, because he had to stay on track. 

Opening his eyes and groaning, he winced and rubbed at his arm where he’d landed on it. He was sure there was a camera in there, but he didn’t worry about that. As long as Peter did his part, and kept Mr. Harris distracted as long as possible, the camera was a non-issue. He was sure whoever was watching it wasn’t paying strict attention to it, anyway. 

They didn’t in movies, at least, so here was hoping fiction mimicked reality. 

Getting to his feet while still rubbing his arm, because fuck it _hurt_ , he frowned when he looked around. He was in a plain cell made of concrete. All the walls were painted white, as was the door, which looked like a heavy duty metal door that he’d expect to see on a submarine as opposed to in a cell. 

When he checked the ceiling, he found a small light—it did enough to illuminate the room, at least—along with a camera, a ventilation fan, and another vent that he assumed would pump something highly unpleasant into his cell. Like sleeping gas. Or poison.

“Okay,” he said slowly, feeling like his voice was echoing off the plain walls. “Not what I was expecting.” 

_“What were you expecting, the Four Seasons?”_ a condescending voice asked from somewhere on his left. 

Stiles turned in that direction, feeling his heartrate increase once more. Holy shit, had this actually worked?! “Hello? Is someone there?” 

_“Yeah, your imaginary friend Stuart,”_ the voice drawled. _“Fucking moron.”_

Stiles pressed himself up against the wall, ear against it while he listened. “Hey, what’s your name?” 

_“Who fucking cares?”_

“I mean, I do. It’s why I asked.”

_“Wow, you’re a fucking idiot, aren’t you? You’re in for a rude awakening when Harris gets down here.”_

“What do you mean?”

_“Stop talking to me.”_

“Stop answering, then.” 

Stiles shouldn’t have said that, because the voice went silent. He sighed and looked around, though he didn’t know what he was looking for. The room was minuscule, and had literally nothing in it. 

“Hey dude?” Stiles called. Silence, because apparently he was locked down here with an asshole. “Hey. Hey, asshole. Come on, I know you can hear me. Hey!” 

_“Shut up!”_ the guy snarled angrily. _“I’m in enough trouble, don’t drag me into your bullshit.”_

“Are you the only one down here?” Stiles frowned. 

_“No,”_ he said condescendingly. _“Lucky for me, I’ve got **you**.”_

“Are we the only people Harris has here?” 

_“People,”_ the guy said with a snort. _“We’re not fucking **people** to him. Better get used to it. And forget about asking people for names, too. That’ll be the first thing he beats out of you.”_

Stiles frowned, hating this Harris asshole more and more by the second. “Is there anyone else here? Or is it just us?”

The guy didn’t answer at first, like he was tired of the conversation, but something about the way Stiles asked must’ve piqued his interest. Like he thought maybe this was a jailbreak. 

Which it was.

Well, hopefully. 

He eventually answered after seeming to chew it over for a bit. _“Four more upstairs. This is the place you go when you’re bad. Or new. Gotta beat you into submission somehow, and he doesn’t like putting bruised goods on display.”_

“So it’s like solitary,” Stiles said, looking around the ceiling of his cell again for the camera.

A snort from his neighbour. _“Sure. Like solitary. If you get someone coming in to beat your ass every ten minutes.”_

“I’d imagine that would be difficult, given most of his possessions are probably powerful,” Stiles said, trying to see if the camera was even on. Probably, but still. 

_“You really **are** an idiot,”_ the guy muttered, but he was evidently close enough that Stiles could hear him. _“See the vent in the ceiling that isn’t a vent? Yeah, they pump a paralyzer into your cell before opening the door. You try using whatever dumbass abilities you have while you can’t move.”_

Okay, so Stiles definitely didn’t want to have that shooting out while he was trying to escape. 

He turned to look at it, then licked his lips. He figured if he put a shield up there, it wouldn’t get caught by the camera. He could put it over the opening, so that the gas couldn’t get pumped out, and then phase the wall. He wished so badly that he could walk through walls, but unfortunately magic wasn’t like that. He could make the _wall_ become something like a gas for a short period of time, but he himself couldn’t actually make himself like that. 

“Okay,” Stiles said quietly. “Okay, you can do this.” He turned back to the wall that seemed to be connected to the other guy. “You know where the others are?”

_“Yeah, but why the fuck does that matter?”_

“Here goes nothing,” Stiles muttered, pressing both hands to the wall and concentrating. He made sure to keep one part of his mind on the shield over the vent that would be pumping gas into his cell, but tried to keep his concentration on the wall. 

He could feel it starting to give under his hands, and he gave another final push before letting out a curse when he fell right through it and into the neighbouring cell, tripping over someone who was sitting on the ground with their back against the wall.

“What the _fuck_?!” the other guy demanded, scrambling to his feet and staring at Stiles like he couldn’t believe his eyes. “What the actual _fuck_?! Get out!” 

“Are you serious?” Stiles demanded, just as a loud alarm went off. It wasn’t a constant alarm, just one loud screech of sound that had both him and his new cellmate covering their ears. 

Stiles heard a loud hissing sound and both he and his cellmate immediately looked up. He couldn’t see anything coming out of the one vent, but he knew it was the gas he’d been told about. 

“You fucking _idiot_!” the other guy shouted angrily, but Stiles ignored him and just threw one hand up. He made the shield appear right above their heads, since he didn’t know how fast the gas would spread. The problem with that was that they now had limited air because he’d had to cut off the vent, as well. 

“We need to get out of here,” Stiles said, moving up to the door while keeping his other hand up. He knew he didn’t _have_ to keep his hand up, but it helped him focus. 

“Good luck when we start losing the ability to fucking _move_ ,” the guy snapped angrily, getting right into Stiles’ personal space. “What is wrong with you?! How did you even _do_ that?! Get back to your own fucking cell, I don’t need you making my life worse.” 

“I’m trying to get you _out_ ,” Stiles shot back over his shoulder. “Shut up and stop using up our oxygen!” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?! We have oxy—” He cut himself off when he went to gesture above them at the vent and hit the shield. Stiles could feel him freeze instantly, going perfectly still behind him. 

He ignored him and just felt around the door for the lock. He didn’t think his magic could unlock anything other than a regular deadbolt though, and he remembered hearing some kind of code. Maybe he could use Mage magic to short-circuit it? Would that open the door though? And he was sure he didn’t have much time, considering the gas being released. It meant people were watching the cameras and probably on their way down right now. 

“These cells are magic proof,” the guy behind him said, very quietly. “You can’t use magic in here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m special,” Stiles muttered, opening the hand not holding up the shield and trying to will some electricity into it. It was slow-going, but it was coming. 

“You’re the Spark.” 

Stiles didn’t reply, he just pressed his free hand against the cell door and shot out some bolts of electricity. Both he and his cellmate jumped when the door flew off the wall and slammed into the opposite side. 

“Whoops.” Stiles hadn’t meant to put _that_ much power behind it, but well, the door was open. Kind of. 

He hurried out of the room and heard someone shout something. When he turned his head and saw a man holding a rifle, he’d just started to hold up his hands to create another shield when his companion knocked him aside in his haste to get out. A loud roar escaped him as he barrelled down the corridor, slamming into the man before he could fire off his shot.

The two fell in a heap on the ground and his cellmate began pummelling the guy with the gun in the face. His fist rose and slammed down over and over again and Stiles honestly wasn’t sure if he was trying to _kill_ the guy. 

“Okay, enough!” Stiles shouted, rushing forward and grabbing the guy’s arm. He almost flew off his feet when he went to swing again, because _wow_ , whatever he was, he was _strong_! 

When the guy turned to Stiles, snarl on his lips and eyes flashing blue, he was kind of confused because... he looked a bit like a Werewolf. He had the pronounced forehead, the flat nose, the chops, the fangs... but he also had what looked like scales snaking up along one half of his face, and one of his eyes kept flickering between blue and yellow. Not Beta gold like Cora and Erica had, but actual _yellow_.

“We gotta go,” Stiles insisted. “Come on.” He didn’t so much as yank the guy off as much as he was allowed to help pull him to his feet. Once they were both standing, the something-like-a-Werewolf-but-not guy wrenched his arm free from Stiles’ grasp and bolted down the corridor. 

Stiles followed close behind him, taking stock of his new companion. He was barefoot and wearing only grey sweats that were riding low on his hips. He looked muscled, but at the same time starved. Stiles knew Werewolves automatically had muscled physiques, one of the perks of _being_ a Werewolf, but this guy clearly didn’t have much actual body mass. His pants were barely staying up while he ran. 

His hair was kind of a sandy colour, cropped short but greasy and unkempt. Stiles felt like it was probably because he was down here and not up on display. He also had what looked like electrical burns around his neck, and some bruising. Stiles didn’t get that, considering this guy seemed to be of the Werewolf variety, so shouldn’t his super-healing have kicked in by now? 

When they reached the next door, the guy snarled and came to a halt. 

“I can blow through that,” Stiles insisted. 

“There are people on the other side,” his friend snapped. 

“Pretty sure if I blow the door off, they’ll just go with it,” he insisted, moving the guy aside with one hand on his chest. He pulled it back sharply when the guy went to _bite_ him. Like, _actually_ tried to bite him in the arm. With the fangs and everything. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

“My bad,” Stiles said, trying to rein in his annoyance. Jesus, he was trying to _help_ and this guy was just being a massive _dick_. 

He moved in front of the door, held out both hands, exhaled sharply, and then slammed out a wall of energy. The door exploded off its hinges the same way the cell door had and he heard shouts on the other side when it obviously bashed through a few people. 

Not all of them though, because he immediately heard shouting and barely avoided what looked like a tranq. He threw up his hand for a shield, and then ran forward. His companion shouted that he was a fucking idiot, but Stiles just rammed right into the closest guy with his invisible shield and slammed him into the wall. 

He felt air whistling past behind him, spun around, and had raised his hand to block a blow to the face when the guy froze. 

Like, literally froze halfway through his swing, suspended in motion by some invisible force. Stiles looked around and saw the four remaining guys had all frozen on the spot, one of them in the middle of reloading tranqs into his gun while staring wide-eyed at Stiles. Another was literally suspended in mid-air since he’d been tossed aside by the not-Werewolf guy.

At first, Stiles thought it might be him. The guy he’d found in the cell. But when he focussed on him, he was _also_ frozen, face twisted in a snarl, eyes flashing blue, and just coming off the swing he’d thrown to get the one guy off him. 

“Okay,” Stiles said slowly, looking around. “This is new.” 

He had _no_ idea how he’d done this, or how to _undo_ it, but for now he wasn’t going to worry about it. He just rushed towards his new buddy, hesitated, then poked him in the arm a few times. 

Nothing happened, which wasn’t great, but this was kind of new territory for him. He had no idea what kind of magic freezing time fell under. He also kind of wished he knew how he’d _done_ it because this would seriously be useful in the future. 

He gave the guy with him a hard shove, and jumped when he suddenly unfroze, still coming off his swing and slamming his fist right into Stiles’ stomach. 

He hit the wall hard, struggling to gasp in air and fell to his knees, both arms wrapped around his middle. His new friend was breathing hard, looking around, completely unsympathetic to having punched Stiles right in the gut. 

“What the hell happened?”

Stiles just let out a wheeze. Fuck, getting hit by a Werewolf-like creature fucking _hurt_. Jesus Christ, he thought he might have broken a few bones. 

He heard footsteps racing away from him and glanced up to find his new friend making a break for the stairs. 

“Wait,” he forced out, grunting and struggling to his feet. He kept one arm wrapped around his middle while he hurried to catch up, his stomach pulsing angrily. He made it to the stairs in time for the guy to disappear around the corner up above. “Hey, wait! Where are the others?” 

The guy didn’t stop running, but he called back, “Next floor up, down the corridor, fourth room on the left. It’s a huge ballroom, you can’t miss it.” 

“Aren’t you going to help me?” Stiles asked, completely floored this guy was literally just _running away_ without any regard for the person who’d helped him _or_ the people he was leaving behind. 

“Not my problem.” 

“Asshole!” Stiles shouted after him, but he received no reply and just grunted while continuing hurriedly up the stairs. 

When he reached the top, the other guy was nowhere to be found, but he heard shouting down one of the corridors and figured that was the direction he’d gone in. Stiles hoped he made it out on his own, because he wasn’t going to follow until he got the others out. Guy might’ve been a dick, but Stiles figured he was just desperate to escape. He couldn’t fault him for that, even though he really wanted to. 

It was easy following the guy’s instructions, Stiles racing through the ridiculously lavish home. Who the fuck even _had_ a ballroom in this day and age? He figured it was more of an entertainment room of some kind, but still. Fucking ridiculous. This was what convention centres were for. 

Then again, this guy had things to show off, which Stiles realized when he slammed through the doors. Thankfully it was devoid of guards—and guests, because that would’ve been awkward—but he skid to a halt as soon as he entered the room. 

It was... kind of daunting. There were glass cases around the entirety of the room, full of various items, from vases, to sarcophagi, to full-blown sculptures. He was pretty sure he saw a painting on the far wall behind a glass panel that was a missing museum art-piece. 

But he tried not to focus on that. His eyes immediately went to the girl who’d stood up abruptly in one of the glass cases. Stiles kind of felt sick when he saw her, because she was painted gold and wearing nothing but skin-tight booty shorts, a sports bra, and a gold band around her throat. They were the same colour as the gold paint and she had dark makeup on her face to contrast against the gold. 

She was like a fucking living statue, something pretty for people to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ at. It made him feel sick.

The girl immediately slapped both hands against the glass urgently, eyes wide. 

_“Help me! Get me out!”_

“That’s the plan,” Stiles said, rushing forward and skidding slightly when he slipped in some water. He grabbed the closest display to stop from falling over and a hand slammed against the glass. He let out a shout and let it go, falling on his ass, and stared up at the face looking down at him, just as desperate as the girl in the glass case.

What he’d thought was just dark water actually contained a _person_. It was a guy, wearing only black shorts that almost blended entirely with him and the dark water around him. Stiles didn’t know if Mermaids were a thing, but he felt inclined to believe this guy was a Mermaid. Merman. Whatever. 

He could breathe underwater, at any rate.

He slammed one fist against the glass and Stiles flapped a hand at him while getting to his feet. “Yeah, yeah, I’m gonna help all of you!” 

Considering he wasn’t sure what to do about the whole water thing for the Mer-whatever, he decided to focus on the girl first. He rushed past the tank, ignoring the insistent pounding, and made it to the glass case she was in. He couldn’t see any kind of door, but she was pointing insistently at one part of the base and shouting at him to get her out. 

He kind of wanted to snap at her to stop shouting because it was stressing him out, but he obediently bent down and felt around the base. When his fingers touched one part of it, a screen came to life with a bunch of letters and numbers. Fuck, he didn’t have time for this. 

“Okay,” he said, standing up and taking a few steps back. “Uh, get in the corner and close your eyes.” 

The girl did as she was told, even though he could tell she was still freaking out. She crouched into a ball with her back to the rest of the glass case, and covered her head with her hands. Stiles held one hand out, exhaled slowly, and shot out a blast of power. 

The glass case cracked instantly, and then shattered, raining glass down around them everywhere. Stiles realized the girl was barefoot, like his friend from downstairs, but he couldn’t do anything about that. 

“Okay, come on, hurry,” Stiles said, rushing to her side and getting her to shift around so he could pick her up in his arms. She was a lot lighter than he’d anticipated, which made him feel sick, but he quickly moved back, sliding a bit on some glass, but managing to keep his footing. He hurried away from the area with the most glass before putting her down. 

When he turned to help the Mer-thing, she grabbed the front of his shirt and twisted around, motioning the gold choker. 

“Get this off! Get it _off_ me!” 

“Okay, calm down,” Stiles insisted, even though he knew why she was panicking. He was also starting to panic, because this was taking too long, and they were loud, and he was sure Harris had a fucking _army_ coming. 

He could only hope his cellmate was keeping people distracted. 

Stiles struggled to find a latch to undo the collar, but his fingers eventually found it and he managed to pull it off. When he did, he saw that there were tiny spikes imbedded inside, so that they pierced into the delicate skin of the wearer’s throat. Drops of blood were sliding down the girl’s skin, and as soon as Stiles pulled the collar off completely, she exploded into a shower of sand. 

His heart stuttered to a halt in his chest, and he stood there holding the collar, staring down at the pile of sand at his feet and the scant clothes she’d been wearing. 

“Holy shit, did I just _kill_ her?!” Stiles demanded, rounding on the Mer-thing in the tank a few feet away. 

He just pounded harder at the glass, and when Stiles went to head that way to let him out _somehow_ , he’d barely taken a step when the pile of sand at his feet shot upwards and slammed through the glass tank. It exploded outward, water cascading out and crashing into Stiles’ legs hard enough to almost knock him over. 

He managed to keep his footing as the dude inside scrambled out, soaking wet and breathing hard. Stiles could see his hands and feet were webbed, and he had gills in his neck, but otherwise he looked pretty human. 

“Get this off,” he snarled at Stiles, struggling with a similar collar around his throat. His was black, and Stiles realized that this was probably what Harris used to keep his toys in line when they were on display. They all seemed to be the same colour as whatever he had his prizes in so that it didn’t detract from their ‘beauty’ or whatever. 

As Stiles moved to get it off him, he saw the sand from before shifting out of the corner of his eye. It was forming into the shape of a girl, but still very clearly sand, and Stiles felt like he was losing his fucking mind. 

He tried to keep on track and help the guy get his collar off, but it was harder because it was wet, and it was difficult to find the clasp with his fingers slipping. 

Stiles heard another case shatter and then a loud screech. He didn’t turn to look though, because clearly sand-girl was going to get the other two out. 

When he finally got the clasp off the Mer-dude, he turned and tripped over his own feet when an eagle literally flew at his face. It landed on his chest and screeched an inch from his eyes, and Stiles realized it also had a collar, buried beneath the feathers. 

“What the fuck is even happening right now?” Stiles demanded, but obediently tried to get the collar off, even as the eagle made _no move_ to help him. It wasn’t easy trying to do this while lying on his back! 

He’d just gotten the collar off when he heard a scream of agony. The eagle screeched and flapped its wings, flying off Stiles and immediately getting caught in a metal net that looked like it was electrified. 

Stiles rolled onto his stomach and scrambled around behind a case with a sarcophagus, trying to peek out around it to see what was happening. There were six men entering the room, all holding various weapons and looking like they were in full SWAT gear. 

The scream he’d heard looked to be the sand-girl, because she was no longer fully sand-like. She was lying in human form, naked, at the men’s feet, trembling while her skin slowly formed ice crystals. They’d evidently used some kind of nitrogen gun on her or something. The eagle, well, he wasn’t a genius, but he figured that was some kind of Metamorph who could change shape. If they trapped it in a small, electric net, it couldn’t shift into another animal and it couldn’t escape. 

The Mer-dude he couldn’t see, and figured he was lying low, same as Stiles. He knew there was still one more person in here though, so they had to figure out how to get rid of these goons and get out. 

“Someone lied to me,” Harris’ voice said angrily, and Stiles inched further back behind the sarcophagus when the man stormed into the room. Stiles leaned back against the case, letting out a harsh breath, and saw that the Mer-dude was literally four cases away from him, hiding behind some kind of weird giant box. He was staring at Stiles with the most terrified look on his face, and Stiles had to wonder if maybe he didn’t have any abilities.

Maybe this guy’s appeal was literally just that he could breathe under water. He’d been so close to freedom, and now he was about to go back in a cage. 

“Seems the Spark has a lot more power than I was led to believe. I don’t appreciate it when people try and touch my things. I was going to be kind to you, Spark. I was going to make this place a comfortable home for you. But after this stunt? You’re going to be staying downstairs for quite some time until you learn your place.” 

He could hear footsteps moving slowly through the room, the sound echoing off the various displays and the walls. The men were going to fan out and try and find them, which didn’t bode well. 

Stiles wasn’t sure what ability he should be using right now. Invisibility seemed like a good one, but he was panicking too much so he couldn’t focus to get himself to disappear. And he was really good at that one, so the fact that he couldn’t do it right now was making him panic _more_. 

He saw the Mer-guy shift out of the corner of his eye and turned to look at him. It seemed like he was about to make a break for it and Stiles motioned emphatically for him to stay put. 

The guy didn’t listen. He ran at a crouch through two of the displays and Stiles heard someone shout, and then a loud hissing sound, and a scream of pain. 

He bit hard at his fist, clenching his eyes shut and struggled to calm down. This was _not_ unexpected! He and Peter had talked about this. He’d known that the guy would have guards or whatever, he’d known that this was going to end up in a fight, he’d _known_ he’d have to use magic to get out of this! 

So why the fuck was he panicking so badly?! He’d been prepared for this! 

_It’d be **really** great if time could freeze right now,_ Stiles thought, eyes still clenched shut and concentrating. _Like, so awesome. The best ever. Right now. Freeze. Come on, **freeze**! _

The footsteps were still echoing around him, so he knew nothing had frozen. Fuck, _fuck_! 

Maybe Peter was right. Maybe he wasn’t ready for this kind of thing. He still needed training. He was literally only a year into knowing what he was, he’d only had about a month of real teaching per magic so far, and he hadn’t even started Alchemy yet! He was like a fucking baby in the magic department, why had he thought he could do this?! 

When a man rounded the corner of the row he was in, Stiles shot fire at him with a shout and then scrambled quickly to another row. Running footsteps sounded, coming in his direction, because he’d let his location slip. 

_Go invisible! Come **on** , Stiles! **Go invisible**!_

He let out a shout when someone shot through a glass case right above his head. 

“Careful you _idiot_ ,” Harris shouted. “These are _priceless_! And don’t you _dare_ kill the Spark! He is the _last_ one!” 

Stiles scrambled behind another case just in time for one of the men to round the corner. He started to turn to head back in another direction when he heard a shot and something slammed into his back. 

He knew it wasn’t a bullet. He knew what those felt like, courtesy of Jennifer and the scar on his shoulder. He knew it wasn’t a tranq, because that would’ve felt like a pinprick, and would’ve probably made him pass out. 

This, though? He had no idea _what_ this was. It felt like some kind of disc, five sharp points of pain imbedded in his skin, and he fell to his hands and knees instantly, feeling like the life was being sucked out of him. He felt almost exactly how he had when he’d gone Void, like all his magic was slowly draining out of him, like he was getting magic deficiency, only ten times worse and three times as fast. 

“Did you think I wasn’t prepared for you?” Harris asked sharply, from much too close, his expensive shoes clicking along the marble floor. “Ever since talk of the Spark resurfacing hit the community, people have been experimenting with new products. Testing and creating whatever they could think of to contain someone like you. Magic is magic, after all. You might have all of it, and your reserve might be astronomical, but if you can create a suppressant that works on multiple magic users, then it stands to reason it will work on _you_.” 

He felt a kick to his stomach and he fell over, gasping and trying to curl in on himself. Harris bent down beside him, grabbing a fistful of hair and wrenching his head up. Stiles’ vision was swimming, the edges darkening, and he was positive he was going to pass out. He tried to summon up something, _anything_ , to push Harris back, but he felt like he couldn’t even move. All his muscles were tensed and he was so tired, and fuck, Derek was going to _kill_ him. 

“How long can Sparks last without food or water?” Harris asked coldly. “I guess we’re going to find out, aren’t we? After this little stunt, you’re just lucky you’re so valuable, or I’d be putting you down.” 

Stiles didn’t have energy to fight him off, but he _did_ have enough to collect saliva in his mouth and spit at Harris. It hit him in the cheek, and the man’s expression darkened. He’d just pulled back his free hand to hit him when there was a loud shout and one of the men in SWAT gear quite literally flew through the air. 

Stiles’ first thought was that it was Derek. Derek had found out about this and shown up to protect him. 

Then he realized that was insane, because they were out of town right now and Derek couldn’t have gotten here that fast. So his second thought was that it was Peter. Stiles had taken too long, and the man had lost his patience and come to see if everything was all right. 

Honestly, who it ended up being didn’t cross his mind at all. 

“Stop him! Gas him!” Harris shouted, getting to his feet and releasing Stiles entirely. “Someone _do something_!” 

There was another almost comical scream while another dude flew through the air and smashed into one of the cases, completely obliterating the vase inside it. Stiles could see Harris’ feet out of his periphery, the man stumbling back urgently. He didn’t know what was going on, but it sounded like the guys who’d been in the room were very quickly dwindling. 

When all Stiles could hear was low snarls and Harris’ terrified breathing, he knew that the not-SWAT team had been taken out. Harris was still taking a few steps back and Stiles saw another set of bare feet appear on his other side, slowly moving past him and towards Harris. 

“We can-we can talk about this,” Harris said, voice shaking. “Things can change. You want your freedom? You can go. Go on, I’ll-I’ll let you leave. You want money? I’ll give you money, anything you want. I’ll give you anything you—”

Stiles flinched when what followed was a ripping sound, a cut off scream, gurgling, and then silence save for the snarls still escaping whoever had come to the rescue. 

“I want my life back,” a familiar voice snarled angrily. 

For a long moment, there was silence save for the laboured breathing and low snarls coming from his saviour. Then, footsteps padded back towards him and he grunted when he was rolled onto his stomach. He let out a shout when the disc latched into his back was ripped free, feeling chunks of skin going with it. 

The second it was off, it was like he could breathe again. His vision snapped back into focus, and while he still felt pretty weak, he was leagues better than he had been five seconds ago. 

Just when he’d started to shift so he could try and stand, someone grabbed his arm and wrenched him violently to his feet, slamming him back hard against the closest display case. His cellmate from downstairs was standing pressed right up against him, hand tight around his arm and the other pointing an angry finger right in Stiles’ face, their noses only two inches apart. 

“Fuck you for making me come back,” the guy snarled angrily, blood dripping down his chin. Stiles tried not to think about whose blood it was, and made sure not to turn to look at Harris. “Let’s get Rose and get the _fuck_ out of here!”

He shoved Stiles hard before letting him go. He almost stumbled, still a little weak from the power suckage, but he managed to keep his feet and used the various displays around him to follow after the not-Werewolf, who was striding quickly through the row. 

“Ben!” He rushed forward then and crouched. Stiles closed the gap and saw he was patting the Mer-guy’s face. He didn’t look badly hurt, more just unconscious. “Ben!” His new friend slapped him across the face and the Mer-dude jerked before his eyes flew open. “Get Alex out of that net.” He turned to Stiles. “You help Claire.” 

“Sure.” Stiles figured ‘Claire’ was sand-girl, so he turned and rushed to where she was. 

When he reached her, she was still trembling, with parts of her body covered in ice. She was still conscious though, her eyes finding his and her teeth chattering while frost continued to snake along her skin. 

Stiles crouched beside her, knowing he didn’t have the energy for this, but unwilling to give up. He let his hands hover above her for a moment, then licked his lips and glanced at her face once more. 

“I _really_ hope I don’t turn you into glass...” 

He let his hands slowly warm up, seeing his skin begin to crack and split, lines of white hot fire beneath his skin while flames slowly formed. It didn’t hurt him, his magic never did, but he could tell Claire looked nervous. 

He seriously hoped he didn’t accidentally turn her into glass. She was fucking made of _sand_ and if he randomly slipped between fire and electricity, well—he still didn’t know that it _was_ electricity. It was more likely to be lightning, considering Mage magic was elemental. And he knew what happened when lightning and sand combined. 

Sand didn’t usually win.

“Okay, careful, careful,” Stiles muttered while he slowly let his hands run up and down the length of her body, being sure to keep them a considerable distance. Every time a part seemed to thaw, he’d quickly move to another part so he wasn’t putting too much heat in one area. 

It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually, even though she was clearly still partly frozen, Claire shifted and Stiles heard loud cracking sounds before she melted into sand again. He stood quickly, closing his hands, and watched the sand swirl away from him and then re-form in the shape of a girl without actually being human. It was the same form she’d taken when she’d let the eagle out.

Or, Alex, apparently. 

“Rose,” Claire said, her voice distorted, and then she disappeared into nothing and Stiles saw her reform a ways down. 

The others were all in front of a large display case that was covered in metal. Stiles figured this one was dangerous and had to have extra precautions in place to avoid any escape attempts. 

His cellmate was in the process of trying to rip it open. There was a bear beside him trying to help.

Like, an actual bear, that wasn’t a metaphor. The eagle was apparently a bear now. 

Stiles moved slowly getting to them, still feeling a little off, his back screaming at him, and completely drained. When he stopped a little ways from them, he saw that the two of them had managed to make a hole big enough for a person to fit through.

Stiles was startled when the face peering back at him through the glass behind the metal cover was that of a little girl. Like, no older than eight. She had wide blue eyes, dark hair that fell in curls around her face, and she looked terrified. 

“Stand back,” his cellmate told her, then reared one fist back and smashed it into the glass. He cut his hand open, large slices appearing along his forearm when he pulled it back, but they healed instantly and he went in again. He used the heel of his palm to break away as much of the glass as he could, being careful of the sharp edges, then motioned the girl out.

“Come on. Come _on_ , Rose. Let’s go!” 

The bear started to shift, turning into another woman with flawless dark skin and a shaved head. She pushed his cellmate aside and crouched in front of the opening. 

“Come, my love,” she said, Stiles a little startled to hear the British accent. “Come, we’re going now.” 

The girl carefully climbed out through the opening and right into the woman’s arms. She held her tightly, pressing the girl’s face into her neck, presumably to avoid her seeing the carnage around her that his friend from downstairs had wrought. 

When Alex turned to him, she nodded once. “Thank you.” 

“Sure,” he said, a little floored. Honestly, now that it was over, he couldn’t believe it’d worked. 

He opened his mouth again to say something, but Claire pressed one hand to Alex’s shoulder lightly, said goodbye, and then disappeared into sand again. 

“Yeah, I’m out,” the Mer-dude Ben said, then turned and bolted for the exit like his ass was on fire. 

Alex just gave Stiles one more nod, still holding Rose, then turned into a gorilla right before his eyes and ran out after Ben. Rose was still clinging to her, and she still had a collar on, but Stiles figured they wanted to get far away from this place before worrying about that. 

Stiles turned to his cellmate expectantly, figuring he was next to make a break for it—which made sense, since he’d been the _first_ to make a break for it—but the guy just crossed his arms over his chest and gave Stiles a condescending look.

“Well? Are we going, or what?” 

Stiles blinked at him, then motioned himself. “Wait, you’re staying with me?” After seeing the others run off, he’d kind of figured this guy would do the same. All of them presumably had families to return to, so he didn’t think this guy would be any different. 

“Are you stupid?” he asked with a snort. “Do you have any idea how much easier it’ll be talking people out of coming for _me_ if _you_ are right beside me? I’m not leaving your side for the rest of my life, the Spark will _always_ be more interesting than a Kanima. So, let’s go, your royal Sparkness.” He made a big sweeping gesture towards the door.

He still had blood all over his face, dried smears of it on his chest, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. Stiles looked around briefly, then turned back to him.

“Anyone else in the house?”

“Not right now, but shift change is in a few hours, so we should be gone before then.” He swept towards the exit again. “Let’s go. Lead the way.” 

“You should clean up and get some clothes and shoes,” Stiles insisted. He got an incredulous look for that but Stiles just rolled his eyes. “It’ll take two seconds, come on. I really don’t think my ride’s gonna want to let someone with blood on their face into his car. He’s kind of particular about blood staining his upholster.” 

The guy stared at him for a few seconds, then scoffed and shook his head. “How are you still alive when you’re so colossally fucking _stupid_?” He shoved past Stiles to lead the way out of the large room. They headed down the hall to another corridor, then up a flight of stairs. 

“I’m Stiles, by the way,” he said, using the railing to help him move since he still felt really off-kilter. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Jackson Whittemore,” the guy muttered, looking both ways when they reached the top of the stairs, like he didn’t know which way to go. It occurred to Stiles that he probably didn’t, he doubted Harris let his pets in his room.

“So you’re a Kanima, huh? That’s kind of cool. What is it?” 

“Do you ever stop talking?” Jackson snapped, finally finding a room with a bathroom attached. 

“Sometimes, but I’m kind of hyped up on adrenaline right now, and we all almost died, so you know, trying to make conversation so I don’t scream and pass out.” 

Jackson scoffed while turning on the water in the sink. While he worked on cleaning himself off, Stiles dug through the closet for some clothes. It didn’t look like this was anyone’s room, since it was pretty sparse, but Harris obviously used it as an extra closet because he had a few clothes available. Stiles found a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, then had to hunt down some shoes that would be comfortable to walk in. 

Once he had sneakers, he turned to find Jackson already yanking the jeans up over his bare ass. They were a little long on him, but he didn’t seem to care, doing them up and then grabbing for the shirt. When he’d pulled it on over his head, Stiles handed over the shoes and waited while he got them on. 

“Can we go now?” Jackson demanded. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Stiles agreed. 

He still tried to make small talk while they headed out of the house, but Jackson wasn’t much for conversation right now, apparently. He answered most of the time, but it always involved some form of insult towards Stiles. 

They were going to be the best of friends, Stiles could feel it. He rolled his eyes at another stupid insult, but kept talking anyway. They had a ways to go to reach Peter’s car, and he definitely wasn’t going to get there without having a panic attack over what had just happened if he didn’t keep his mind distracted. 

He found out what all the others were while they walked, and hoped that they’d make it safely to wherever they were headed. 

Ben, as Stiles had already ascertained, was a Merman. Apparently they were coveted not because they were _rare_ , per se, but because they were _impossible_ to catch. They were careful, and extremely powerful when in their natural habitat, so catching one was unheard of. But, every now and then, one would turn up for sale on the black market, and people always outbid each other to astronomical numbers to get one. 

Alex was a Metamorph, also as Stiles had surmised. There were different kinds of them, but they were a dying breed. Most of them turned into animals, and were mistaken as such by poachers, so their numbers were dwindling. Some could morph into other people, and others could morph into objects, so they weren’t all the same, but they were just as rare as Banshees, according to Jackson. 

Rose was an Elemental, which was probably the rarest type of Supernatural barring the Spark. They couldn’t be made, and they weren’t born from other Elementals. It was one of those rarities that either happened or it didn’t. Rose was one of twelve known Elementals in the world. Apparently her element was earth, which was why Harris had to be careful about her in the glass case. She could control a lot of the various items in the display cases around her, since a lot of the vases were made of clay. Whenever she wasn’t being shown off, he left the metal cover up to dampen her power. The collar helped, of course, but it couldn’t completely contain her. She tended to behave though because, as Stiles had guessed looking at Jackson’s neck, the collars were almost like shock collars. If they misbehaved, they got zapped, and for an eight year old, that hurt a _lot_. 

Claire was a Sand Sprite. Like Merfolk, she wasn’t necessarily rare, but Sprites in general were extremely difficult to catch. Easier than Merfolk, but still hard enough that when one turned up, they were sought after. Apparently she was the second of the ‘treasures’ Harris had ever gotten for his collection.

Unsurprisingly, given his words to Harris, Jackson was his first. He’d been sold to him when he was twelve, and had been trying to escape ever since. Given he was now twenty, that was a long time of trying to get out, and Stiles felt like he forgave him a little for just bolting the second he could. 

And besides, he’d come back. That meant something. 

Stiles still wasn’t sure he understood what a Kanima _was_ , but it kind of sounded like a weird Werewolf. Like one who’d turned, but not properly. Or completely? Jackson _was_ a Werewolf, but he was also something else. His Beta shift looked the way Stiles had seen it, with the scales and one eye changing colour. His full shift apparently comprised of a lizard-like being, complete with a tail and paralysing venom in his teeth and claws. 

He felt like he’d be okay never seeing that. Lizard-men was kind of a sore spot for Stiles since he’d watched an alien space-movie when he was seven and had never fully gotten over it. 

He was still poking at Jackson for more insights when a loud engine roared down the road from up ahead, headlights bouncing slightly. Jackson tensed immediately, crouching slightly and ready for a fight. Stiles glanced over, but just smiled a little when he saw it was Peter. 

The second the car’s headlights were close enough to bounce off Stiles, it slowed immediately, closing the distance at a more reasonable speed before coming to a stop right beside them, as if Peter hadn’t literally just been burning rubber down the road a second ago. 

The driver’s side window rolled down then, Peter giving him a once-over. His face was expressionless, but he saw his nostrils flare and his eyes flashed blue. He obviously smelled the blood. 

“Stiles,” he said, almost formally. “I was just on my way to make sure everything was all right.” 

“All good,” Stiles informed him, then thumbed at Jackson. “This is Jackson. He’s a Kanima.” 

Jackson turned to Stiles sharply, as if pissed he’d told Peter what he was so _easily_ , but to be fair, if Peter knew Stiles was the Spark, what exactly did the guy think Peter was going to do to him? He obviously didn’t care what people were, otherwise Stiles would be in _real_ trouble. 

“Pleasure,” Peter said to Jackson, not sounding pleased at all. “We risked your neck for one pretty boy with an attitude problem?” 

“There were actually five,” Stiles said before Jackson would cut in. He looked like he _wanted_ to cut in, and Stiles was kind of glad that he wasn’t all skittish and nervous like Mason had been. If nothing else, Jackson had spirit, and Harris had never broken him. “They didn’t want to stick around.” 

“Pity,” Peter said, not sounding like that bothered him at all. “Well, get in, then. We have a ways to go to get home.” 

Stiles motioned the back for Jackson and moved around the hood to get into the passenger seat. He could tell Jackson was a little hesitant and uncomfortable, like he was starting to wonder if this was some kind of trap, but he eventually got in the car and buckled up. Stiles slammed his door and pulled his own seatbelt across his chest while Peter pulled out his phone. They both waited while he texted someone, then closed out of his messages and texted someone else. He got a response from the second person, nodded once, sent one more message and put his phone away.

Glancing at Stiles to be sure he was buckled in, Peter turned the car around and headed back the way he’d come. 

“Harris is dead,” Stiles informed him. 

“Shame, he had a prison cell with his name on it,” Peter said, not sounding at all upset to hear Harris hadn’t survived the night. “Did you do it?” 

Stiles gave him a look, but it was Jackson who answered, snorting loudly. “Him? Please.” 

“So it was you,” Peter said, eying Jackson in the rear-view mirror. “I must say, little Spark, words cannot _begin_ to describe how pleased I am that you invited a _killer_ into my car, and we are now driving _home_ with him.” 

Stiles winced at that. Jackson just tensed, like he was preparing for a fight if Peter tried to kick him out of the car. 

“I mean, Harris kind of had it coming?” Stiles offered. “And-and you never said... like, how was I supposed to know? About, you know, the prison thing?” 

“It was last minute,” Peter offered. “I called Scott’s father on a whim. He was quite unhappy to be told at the last minute, but he was arranging for a team to storm Harris’ place as soon as possible.” 

Stiles frowned, wondering why Peter would use up a favour to storm the house when it occurred to him this was Peter panicking. 

Peter had probably left the house, had a complete mental break over the fact that he’d just _handed over the Spark_ , and had immediately called the FBI. He likely honestly hadn’t thought Stiles was going to succeed and, to be fair, he wouldn’t have if not for Jackson. That FBI raid _would_ have been necessary if Jackson hadn’t come back. 

They drove in silence for a few minutes, Stiles still trying to come down from his adrenaline high. He still couldn’t believe what had just happened. He felt like it was some kind of really vivid dream or something. 

It also taught him a few things, the first being that this was _definitely_ his calling. Helping out other rare Supernatural beings that were being held and paraded around like commodities. Every time he thought about Claire painted gold with her hair all done up and the pretty makeup, he wanted to be sick. And Rose. She was eight years old. _Eight_! And even Jackson, who’d been sold at twelve and had somehow kept his fighting spirit despite being held captive for eight years of his life. 

He’d missed out on _everything_! School, friends, hobbies, fucking _puberty_! He’d grown up in a cage, not unlike Stiles, except Stiles at least had _some_ degree of freedom. Jackson had literally had nothing. 

Stiles wondered if he remembered what ice cream tasted like. Or pizza. Or fucking _pop_. Like, did he remember what he even liked? Had he ever seen _Star Wars_? Had he ever had a crush on anyone? Did he know _anything_ about life after growing up in a cage? 

“I told Derek, by the way,” Peter said, snapping Stiles from his thoughts. 

It took a second for the words to sink in, but once they did, Stiles’ eyes widened and his head snapped in Peter’s direction, horror filling him. “You _what_? Why-why would you do that? Why would you _do_ that?!” Stiles buried both hands in his hair, heart beginning to beat faster in his chest. “Oh my G— _Peter_! What the fuck! _Why_?!” 

Peter turned to give him a look. “Well if you didn’t make it out of there by the end of the night, he was going to find out anyway.”

“We still have an hour!” Stiles shouted, pointing at the clock on the dash. “Why didn’t you _wait_ to _see_ if I’d make it out?!” He fell back into his seat and covered his face with both hands. “Oh God, he’s gonna kill me. He’s gonna straight up _murder_ me. I was safer back with Harris. Fuck.” He peeked through two fingers at Peter, his voice muffled behind his hands. “Was he mad?” 

“What do you think?” 

“Oh God,” Stiles closed the gap back up and screamed behind his hands. “Let me out.” He turned to the door and tried the handle, even though he knew it was locked. “Let me out, I have to go into hiding. Maybe I can go back to Satomi’s. She’d probably let me hide out there until he calmed down.” 

“He would just hunt you down,” Peter reminded him. “Best you face the music now.” 

“Why?!” Stiles demanded, shaking his hands dramatically at Peter. “You know how he is! He’s going to murder me! _And_ you! And then me _again_!” 

“Can you have a mental breakdown more quietly?” Jackson demanded from the back seat. 

“No!” Stiles whipped around. “Shut up! Peter!” He turned back to him, but the Werewolf looked entirely unsympathetic. 

“Who’s Derek, anyway?” Jackson asked, clearly annoyed but curious enough to want an answer. 

“My best friend,” Stiles moaned, sinking lower in his seat. “He’s a little protective.” 

“A little?” Peter glanced at him. “We have very different definitions of what ‘a little’ means. Remind me to bear that in mind next time you ask for ‘a little’ more cake.” 

“I hate you,” Stiles told him, with feeling. “I hate you _so_ much.” 

Peter just reached out and, very condescendingly, patted Stiles on the head. It took everything in him not to smack the man’s hand away, but he was too busy having a meltdown. 

Derek was going to _kill_ him! 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- More mentions of Kate and what she may or may not have done to Derek in a sexual nature.  
> \- Someone tries to buy Stiles and treats him like property. They're basically trying to do this right in front of him, like he doesn't matter.  
> \- Date rape drugs are mentioned and Stiles pretends to be drugged but it's all a ruse.  
> \- Someone is murdered in this chapter. It's one of the bad guys, and it's not described in details, but it's mentioned and Stiles is there for it, he just doesn't see it. 
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> Star Wars (c) George Lucas


	14. The Breach

Stiles knew he couldn’t sink down any lower in his seat, but he sure as shit tried when Peter slowly turned into the large front lot of the building. Derek was standing outside in front of the door leading into their home, and even from a distance, Stiles could see he was _not happy_. He had his arms crossed, every muscle looked like it had been carved out of stone he was so tense, and his eyes were crimson before the car had even started to turn towards him. 

A small whine left him as he tried, in vain, to slide down far enough that he couldn’t be seen through the window. He knew it was a moot point, wasn’t like Derek didn’t know he was there. Stiles hated Peter so much right now. 

When the car eased to a stop, Peter shifting into park, nobody moved. Jackson didn’t say a word behind him, and Stiles figured even _he_ could tell how pissed off Derek was. And he didn’t even _know_ him. 

“You’ll only make him angrier if he has to come and get you,” Peter informed him. 

“Don’t sleep,” Stiles said, turning to scowl at him. “Next time you pass out, I’m coming for you.” 

“You say this as if Derek will ever let you out of his sight ever again.” 

“He’d probably help me,” Stiles said dryly. 

He winced when he heard a snarl, loud enough to be clear through the closed windows. Another small whine left him and he obediently unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. Peter, at least, seemed to show him some pity because he heard him do the same. Jackson followed, but probably more out of morbid curiosity than actual solidarity. 

Stiles shut the car door, hunching his shoulders slightly and shifting his weight, shoving his hands in his pockets. Derek was still staring at him with his red eyes, and he very slowly uncrossed his arms and pointed at the spot in front of him. 

Wincing, Stiles took a deep breath and started moving forward. Peter came up beside him, one hand on his shoulder and squeezing once, then released him. Stiles noticed Derek shoot a brief, angry look at his uncle, but he focussed back on Stiles relatively quickly. Clearly all the anger he had was going to be reserved for him. 

As he got closer, he saw Derek’s nostrils flare and his eyes widened, and Stiles _knew_ , he just fucking _knew_ that he was _so_ going to hear about this. Because he’d forgotten about his back, and Derek could obviously smell the blood, and he was in for the _worst_ night when all he wanted to do was fucking shower and go to sleep. 

Maybe not even shower. Just sleep. 

He stopped in front of Derek, keeping his head down but raising his gaze slightly. Yup, he looked just as scary mad from up close as he had from far away. Derek very slowly crossed his arms again and loomed over him. The two inches difference in height literally felt like two fucking feet right now, Stiles felt like a worm. 

“So I know you’re mad, but first can I just—” The look he got very clearly said he could _not_ and Stiles winced. “No, yeah, okay.” He pressed his lips together. 

Derek moved to one side and opened the door to their home so violently that Stiles worried he’d break _that_ door, too. Thankfully, he didn’t, and Stiles just bowed his head in defeat and headed inside. He would explain himself to Derek, just—not with an audience. He didn’t want to have this argument in front of Peter and some guy he’d just met.

When a snarl came from behind him again, Stiles turned and saw Derek was in the doorway again, one hand pressed to Jackson’s chest. 

Jackson slapped it away angrily, snarling himself and flashing blue eyes at Derek. “Where he goes, I go.” 

“Not likely,” Peter said easily, moving up beside Jackson but having the good sense not to touch him. “Derek isn’t going to let anyone else near Stiles tonight. Besides, I have some questions and you have my answers, so off we go.” 

“I’m sticking close to the Spark,” Jackson snapped, turning to glower at Peter. “If anyone comes for me, I need a more appealing target beside me.” 

“You make the best friends, little Spark,” Peter informed him, but the smile he turned on Jackson was cold. “Get in the car, before I make you. Unless you’d rather I just put you back where you were found. I’m sure the FBI will be very interested in the man who killed Harris.” 

Jackson still looked haughty, but some of his condescension was waning, like he was honestly wondering how serious Peter was. He glanced at Derek, then Peter once more, and seemed to determine that these were not people to fuck with. Scoffing, like this entire thing was stupid, Jackson turned and shoved past Peter to head back to the car. 

“Do try to keep your temper in check,” Peter told his nephew softly. “He did well tonight.” 

The snarl he got in response very clearly said, “I’ll deal with _you_ later.” Derek took two steps backwards and then slammed the door. 

Stiles made a face behind his back while Derek locked up, and when he turned to face him, he sighed and headed up the stairs. Derek was stomping angrily behind him, and Stiles knew that he was going to be making as much noise as possible to make up for his inability to actually yell at him. 

Wasn’t the first time Stiles had gotten in trouble with Derek, but he could safely say this was probably the _worst_ transgression to date and he _was_ going to hear about it, he was sure. 

Once they were back in the loft, Stiles walked forward a few steps and listened to the loud scrape and screech of the door being slid shut behind him rather violently. The locks were engaged and Stiles took a deep breath, ready to turn around to try and explain himself, when he spluttered at the sudden feel of hands at his sides and his shirt was halfway over his head before he knew what was going on. 

“Derek?!” 

The shirt was tossed away violently, and Stiles froze when he realized what was happening. Gentle fingers were poking at his back and he winced slightly when it ached. He was sure that the mechanism that had latched itself into his skin had, not only caused wounds, but also bruises. 

Derek shoved his shoulder lightly once in the direction of the couch, and Stiles obediently moved to it while the Werewolf headed for the bathroom. He was still doing that thing where he walked louder than was necessary and he was opening and closing the cabinet doors harder than necessary. He was showing his anger and displeasure by being as loud as he could doing something as mundane as getting the First Aid kit. 

Stiles turned to watch Derek, the Werewolf grabbing a wet cloth last and then stomping back out of the bathroom. His eyes were still glowing red and he snarled and jerked his chin at Stiles in a clear, “Turn back around” sort of way. Stiles obeyed and sat sideways on the couch.

Derek was behind him in seconds, and they were both silent while careful hands worked at cleaning the injury. He winced when hydrogen peroxide was poured over the wounds, feeling the liquid slide down his back and into the hem of his jeans, but he didn’t comment on it and let Derek work. He was a Werewolf, tending to a human was still a bit of a new thing for him. He was doing his best.

And still mad, because Stiles could hear his angry breathing behind him. 

Once he was all cleaned up, Derek collected the trash and went to put the kit away. Stiles stood in the hopes that he could maybe escape to the bedroom, get into his pyjamas, and pass out without a lecture. 

No dice. The second he stood and started to turn, Derek was back, getting right into his personal space. 

“Okay, but—” 

Derek snarled and made a cutting motion immediately. He started jabbing his finger angrily at Stiles, gesturing between them, then thumped his chest. When he motioned for Stiles to sit back down and shut up, he obeyed, because one way or another, he was going to get lectured. 

When Derek started pacing in front of him, he was so mad that he kicked the coffee table and didn’t seem to notice, the item skidding across the floor quite a ways before coming to a stop. Stiles just watched Derek while he snarled and snapped his teeth, still pacing and gesturing wildly. 

He didn’t need to speak for Stiles to know exactly what he was saying. 

“Are you insane?!”

“You could’ve gotten hurt!”

“You _did_ get hurt!”

“What were you _thinking_?!” 

“What if something had happened to you?!” 

“How could you fucking do something so _reckless_?!” 

Stiles could see Derek’s lips moving, even though the shape of them didn’t make any sense. He’d noticed him doing that a lot, lately. Moving his lips, as if words would come out if he tried hard enough. It never worked, and Stiles felt like the curse extended to lip-reading, because the shape of them never made a lick of sense to Stiles, but he let him have his moment. 

He felt like Derek had been waiting to tear him a new one for a while, about anything and everything, and was using this moment to do it because his pacing and angry gesticulating went on for a good fifteen minutes. Stiles could read every single thing he was trying to say through his expressions and his body language, but he was really starting to get tired. 

Yes, he’d done a bad thing. Yes, Derek was angry. Yes, he had to be more careful.

But what was the point of being alive if he wasn’t going to _live_?! 

What was the point of being a Spark if he couldn’t use what he was to help people who needed help? 

“Can I talk now?” Stiles demanded after an additional three minutes. Derek rounded on him, pointing an angry finger at him and baring his teeth, but Stiles just threw his hands in the air. “I know, Derek! I _know_! I fucked up! I was reckless! I could’ve gotten hurt!” 

Derek’s emphatic jab said, “You _did_ get hurt!” 

“I saved five people, Derek!” Stiles shouted. 

For the first time since they’d entered the loft, Derek paused and his eyes flickered back to their usual green colour. He was still scowling and breathing angrily, but he’d stopped pacing. 

“Look, I _know_ , okay?” Stiles insisted. “I know what I did was risky, and stupid, and things could’ve turned out way worse than they did. I know that. But Derek, I _saved_ five people.” He motioned towards the window behind him with one hand. “Jackson’s been held prisoner there since he was _twelve_! There was a little girl there, Derek. She was _eight_. I’m not saying you have to like it, and I’m not saying I wasn’t terrified and thought it was a bad idea myself the second I was in that cell, but if given the choice, I would do it again. I went in there, and five people came out with me.” 

He could tell Derek still wasn’t done being mad. His throat worked roughly, and he was breathing hard like it was taking everything he had not to roar in Stiles’ face. When he turned abruptly, Stiles thought he was going to leave to cool off, but he instead stormed to the table and picked up the dictionary. 

It was already open with Derek flipping through it by the time he’d stomped back towards the couch. He stopped on a page and motioned a word, Stiles barely catching it before he was flipping again. He got through three more words before he let out another angry growl, ripped the dictionary clean in half, and threw them both violently into the wall. 

Then he started pacing again, more agitated than before, and Stiles _ached_ at how much he could tell Derek was frustrated. How badly he wanted to just be able to _explain_ himself, to tell Stiles what was wrong, why he was so mad. 

And it wasn’t until Stiles thought on the four words Derek had managed to flip through before giving up that he realized why he was so fucking livid. 

“I didn’t tell you,” he said quietly. 

Derek turned to him sharply, but didn’t stop pacing. 

Stiles closed his eyes and rubbed at his face. “That’s why you’re so mad at me. It’s not just that I did it, it’s that I did it without telling you.” 

When he let his hands drop, the broken look on Derek’s face hurt more than anything. He stopped in front of Stiles and motioned himself emphatically. 

“How do you think I would feel if something happened to you and I didn’t know?” his gesturing said. “How can I _survive_ anything happening to you?” 

Stiles opened his mouth, but words failed him. Because really, he’d just been thinking about how much trouble it would be to argue with Derek into letting him do this. Better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. 

But now that he was sitting here, on the other end of Derek’s anger and fear and _betrayal_ , he felt like asking for permission would’ve been the lesser evil. 

He didn’t know when Peter had told him. Right after he’d gone in? After the first hour? After the second? It had felt like no time at all to Stiles inside that place, because everything was happening so fast, and his adrenaline had been through the roof. But he’d been in there for a _long_ time. 

So when had Derek found out? How panicked had he been the second Peter had told him? He’d probably paced a groove into the floor somewhere, raking his hands through his hair, positively _freaking out_ because Stiles was out there, in some psychotic dude’s ‘collection’ and Derek was here, in the loft, with no idea what was going on. 

Stiles remembered Peter texting someone when he’d gotten into the car. Well, two someone’s. He figured one was Scott’s father, but the other—well, it was obviously Derek. And he didn’t want to think about how Derek must’ve reacted to finding out he was okay, because it hurt to think about how much he’d scared him, and fuck, he was the _worst_. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, emphasizing the words. “Derek, I didn’t mean—I just knew you’d try and stop me. But we did a good thing for Mason. I helped these people. I just... I didn’t want you to talk me out of it. I wanted to do this.” 

Derek moved forward and crouched in front of him, pressing one warm hand firmly against Stiles’ bare chest, his look so intense that it almost made Stiles uncomfortable. 

“I promise,” he said with a small nod. “Never again. I’ll tell you going forward. I promise.” 

Derek examined every inch of his face, searching for the lie, then seemed satisfied and grunted. When he stood, he slapped Stiles’ cheek perhaps a bit harder than he usually did after one of their spats, and motioned for him to get up and get ready for bed. 

Stiles did as he was told, going upstairs to get his pyjamas and changing out in the bathroom so he could use the toilet and brush his teeth. When he came out and went upstairs, Derek started to go through his own nightly routine. He was still much louder than usual, like this was a level of anger he’d never hit before, and Stiles pressed his lips together while he climbed into bed. 

The lights on the first floor went out a while later and Derek climbed the stairs up to the room. Stiles honestly thought that when he climbed into bed, Derek was going to turn his back on him and sulk for the rest of the night.

He should’ve known better, because Derek wasn’t like that. He’d lost too many people to focus on petty things like that. He was clearly still mad, but he rolled over towards Stiles like he always did and pulled him into his chest. 

Stiles unconsciously made a small noise when Derek’s squeeze hurt his back and the Werewolf loosened his grip instantly. 

“We’re going to have to talk about that,” Stiles said in the darkness. 

Derek tapped lightly at the base of his spine in inquiry. 

“Yeah. But not now. Tomorrow.”

Derek grunted his agreement and settled comfortably against Stiles. 

It was a rare thing for Derek to fall asleep before Stiles did, but evidently his panic and anger had exhausted him because he passed out within a few minutes of lying down. Stiles lay curled into him, fingers of his right hand playing idly with some of Derek’s chest hair while he thought about the evening. 

About the Collector Harris. About Peter calling the FBI. About Derek. 

Always about Derek. What he’d done to him, what he’d put him through. 

He couldn’t do this to him again. Never again. It wasn’t right, and while he knew that going was his decision to make, and that Derek didn’t have the right to stop him, he shouldn’t have left him in the dark, either. 

Even Peter knew it, which was why he’d told him. But in a way, telling him before knowing Stiles was all right was its own kind of cruelty. Peter likely hadn’t been doing it to be cruel though, he’d just realized how much it would hurt Derek if he didn’t know. 

More than anything, it hurt seeing how Derek had reacted. His angry pacing, his laboured breathing. He’d ripped the dictionary in half. Like, right in half. That was his only method of communication, and it was so lacking in that moment that Derek couldn’t handle it. 

“Never again,” Stiles promised, pressing further into Derek. The Werewolf grunted in his sleep and tightened his grip, his beard scraping lightly along the top of Stiles’ head before he settled again. “I’ll never do this to you again. I promise.” 

Derek didn’t answer.

But then, he never really did, did he? 

* * *

Jackson Whittemore was a grade A asshole, bonafide conceited pretty boy, and a class one douchebag. He was rude, he was condescending, he was entitled, he acted like nobody else in the world mattered but him, and he had the biggest chip on his shoulder of anyone Stiles had ever met in his entire life.

So of course, they immediately became friends. Because apparently Stiles attracted assholes like nobody’s business given his best friend was Derek who was, in his own rights, a complete and utter asshole himself. 

Stiles didn’t really know what to make of Jackson at first. He was a bit of a contradictory enigma, for the most part. He spent most of his time insisting that he needed to stick close to Stiles to ensure something shinier was beside him if another Collector came knocking, but at the same time he snapped at people if they stared at Stiles for too long, like he didn’t want them to focus on him and realize he was the Spark. 

He’d been living with Peter for the most part since his arrival in Beacon Hills. Given his blue eyes and the fact that he’d killed Harris, Peter had sent Cora to stay with Lydia’s family for a while so they wouldn’t be under the same roof. Stiles still wasn’t sure what Peter thought of him, but the two of them seemed to tolerate one another, at any rate. 

Nobody liked it when he was with Stiles, though. Not for the first week, at any rate. Whenever Jackson showed up at the loft, Derek practically attached himself to Stiles, like some kind of giant Werewolf leech. Stiles had actually started worrying Derek was trying to steal his food with how close he was sticking to him. 

Jackson had made a snide comment about Derek handcuffing himself to Stiles if he wanted to stay so close to him, which had earned him a dirty look from said individual because now _Derek was thinking about it_! 

“If I end up handcuffed to him, I’m coming after you,” Stiles informed Jackson coldly while sitting in his blanket fort with an Alchemy book.

Derek was pressed up so close beside him that Stiles actually disrupted his attempts to play the guitar every time he turned a page. Not his problem, though. That was a Derek problem. All on him. He could move. 

“I wouldn’t mind going a round against you,” Jackson said with a smarmy smirk, having stolen four pillows and two blankets to make his own mini fort a few rows down from Stiles. He hung out in the loft like he owned the place, and Stiles was pretty sure the only reason he left at night was because Derek had started going full Alpha on him.

With the eyes and the growling and the forcing Jackson to submit. He wasn’t technically obligated to submit, given he wasn’t in the pack, but he always bared his throat, flashed his teeth, and told Stiles he’d see him tomorrow. And every time tomorrow came, it came with a Jackson attached. 

“I don’t think you’d make it too far,” Stiles insisted, skimming the page he was on before flipping to the next one. “I can freeze time, remember?” 

“You still don’t even know how you did that,” Jackson shot back. He wasn’t wrong, but the reminder kind of stung. “And did you forget who saved your ass? If I hadn’t come back, you’d be in a pretty glass prison by now probably painted gold with tassels on your nipples.” 

Stiles frowned in Jackson’s direction, despite being unable to see him. “Why-why would I have tassels on my nipples?” 

“Who knows, Harris was fucked. Though maybe not gold. More silver. Yeah, you’d probably have ended up painted silver.” 

“What was his deal with painting people?” Stiles demanded, squinting slightly while he tried to picture himself painted silver. Derek’s snort beside him suggested he was imagining him with the nipple tassels and Stiles smacked at him without even looking. 

“We had to be aesthetically pleasing to the eye,” Jackson insisted, popping up from his position to give Stiles one of his usual condescending looks. “No point in parading around your goods if they’re butt-ugly. He’s lucky you got us all out, you really would’ve brought down the whole level of beauty in the place.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and shut his book. Conversations with Jackson were _much_ more interesting than Alchemy. And besides, he’d kind of lost interest in it after discovering that it was impossible to create the philosopher’s stone. It was one of those legends that people spoke about that was nothing more than that. A legend. 

Lame. He’d been looking forward to turning the coffee-maker into gold to see how long Derek would last before caving and buying a new one. 

“Thank goodness my hideousness got us out of there then,” Stiles retorted. “What colour were you painted, then?” 

“Usually metallic green. Eyeliner is a bitch, no idea why girls shove pencils into their eyes.” 

Stiles supposed it made sense. Claire had been painted gold because she was a sand Sprite. Jackson was a Kanima, and given his full shift was a lizard-man—Stiles _still_ didn’t like thinking about it—he supposed it wasn’t unusual that he’d have been painted in the green spectrum. 

Ben had been underwater and thus paint was ridiculous. Alex had been a bird when Stiles had entered so she probably got out of being painted because she was usually shifted. 

Rose was different, and Stiles wondered if it was because she was a child. He hoped so. She was the only one who hadn’t been virtually naked, and Jackson hadn’t ever mentioned anything about her in makeup. She’d been in a cute little dress and her hair was all done up, but Stiles was glad that she’d escaped the majority of the sexualization that the rest of them had been forced to endure. 

He was sure putting Jackson and Ben in skimpy shorts, and Claire in a literal bikini was as much about showing off what they were as it was showing off how they looked. Stiles wouldn’t have looked good in a pair of skimpy shorts, so he was glad they hadn’t gotten that far. 

“You think they made it home?” Stiles asked. “The others, I mean.” 

Jackson shrugged expansively. “Who knows? Who cares?” When he ducked back down out of sight, Stiles knew that _Jackson_ cared. He’d never admit it, but he obviously cared. 

He’d cared enough to come back. A terrified Kanima, finally free after eight years of entrapment, and he’d _still_ turned around to help the others. Stiles didn’t know how far he’d gotten before coming back, all he knew was that, much as he hated admitting it, Jackson was right.

Stiles wouldn’t have made it out of there without his help. 

Derek nudged him when the silence stretched for too long save for his strumming, and he jerked his chin at the book. Stiles sighed and opened it again, reading over the same page for a second time, his mind still wandering. 

He hadn’t been able to replicate the freezing time thing since he’d done it in Harris’ basement. He’d asked Satomi and Sean about it via text, but both of them admitted it wasn’t their kind of magic. He didn’t even need to ask Deaton and Mr. Yukimura to cross off Druid and Sorcerer magic, but it also didn’t seem to fit into any of the other categories left, either. 

Stiles figured it was just one of those sub-magics that Sparks could do. Something he’d have to learn and sort out on his own. He wasn’t really a fan of that, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He _definitely_ wanted to have it down before he tried this whole endeavour again, at any rate. 

Not to mention the other things that had gone wrong. Like that soul-sucking disc that had imbedded itself into his back. 

Okay, not soul-sucking, exactly, but it had _felt_ like it. He and Derek had discussed it the morning after, as promised. Derek had made him text Peter, who was unhappy to hear about something that could take him down so easily. He suspected it was because Stiles still wasn’t technically at full power yet, but admitted he honestly didn’t know.

And then there were the performance issues. Stiles freezing up in the middle of everything to the point where he couldn’t even turn _invisible_. It was literally one of the _easiest_ spells for him, and he hadn’t been able to do it. That just proved he had a long way to go before he was any good to anyone.

He was starting to understand how his mother had died all those years ago. Sure, Sparks were powerful, but there were so many costs. Going Void, magic deficiency, all these power-sucking contraptions. She’d already depleted all her magic saving basically half the planet, _and_ had a child afterwards. It made sense she hadn’t been able to fend off people coming after her. 

“I’m bored,” Jackson said, cutting through Stiles’ thoughts. 

“Then go do something,” Stiles offered, flipping the page of his book. 

“Why don’t you stop being a stick in the mud and entertain me?” 

“I’m not here for your personal entertainment,” Stiles informed him distractedly, finding something interesting on the page he was reading. 

“What about Lassie?”

That promptly trumped whatever he was reading. Stiles glanced back over in the direction of Jackson’s voice and he saw Derek look up sharply. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles asked, positive he’d misheard. 

“He’s playing that same song over and over again. Doesn’t he know any other songs?” 

Stiles couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him, turning to Derek. “Oh my God, I’m calling you Lassie from now on.” 

The look he got told him he better not, or he was going to regret it, but Derek’s response to Jackson’s request was to start playing Smoke on the Water from the beginning again, much louder. 

That earned him an exasperated sigh before Jackson’s head popped back up. “Don’t you guys do anything _fun_ around here?” 

“I mean, sometimes. But my life the past year has mostly centred on not dying and learning magic so,” Stiles motioned the train car vaguely. “This is almost as fun as things get for me.” 

“Don’t your other friends come and visit?” 

“They do, but they don’t want to distract me, either. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in top form.” 

“Oh, I noticed. Maybe cut back on the ice cream, Chunky.”

“I meant with my _magic_!” Stiles insisted coldly, then turned to Derek. “You’d tell me if I was getting fat, right?” 

Derek glanced at him, then resolutely returned his gaze to his fingers on his guitar. Stiles sputtered incoherently, then smacked Derek hard in the arm with his book. 

“Asshole. I’m surrounded by assholes.”

“Don’t pretend it’s any hardship.” Jackson motioned himself. “You get to stare at this face whenever you want, now. You should feel privileged.” 

“Should’ve left you in that cell,” Stiles said. 

“Should’ve. Didn’t.” 

Jackson fell back down out of sight and Stiles smiled a little. He liked that Jackson seemed to be doing okay outside of that hellhole. He was nothing like Mason, despite the two of them having been almost the same age when they’d been taken by their respective abusers. He supposed Jackson just had a stronger spirit. 

He still didn’t like being touched, and he’d gotten particularly violent the first time someone had tried to take his plate away at the table because they’d thought he was done, but overall he was in far better shape than Mason. Stiles was glad for it, because he couldn’t imagine having to help someone like Jackson. 

He supposed the main difference between the two was that their abuse was fairly different. Both had been starved, though Jackson’s side was more when he misbehaved as opposed to in general, like Mason. Jackson had also lived a life of being fawned over, people admiring him for what he was and what he looked like. He was never hit or purposefully injured just for shits and giggles like Mason had been. Every punishment Jackson had received was one he’d earned by trying to escape. 

Actually, he’d admitted Harris didn’t abuse any of them as much as he could help it. Not in a noticeable way, at least, because not all of them healed like Jackson did. He didn’t want to blemish his things, which was why he’d found ways to incapacitate them that didn’t cause any actual marks. 

The only exceptions were the collars, but those only came off if they went down to the basement cells for being ‘bad.’ It had taken a few days for the marks to disappear from Jackson’s neck, and he found out it was because his collar had been coated in wolfsbane and some of Jackson’s own paralysing venom was in the spikes imbedded inside it. 

The venom didn’t paralyse him like it did others, because he was immune to it in that regard, but it usually slowed down his healing to a degree. Mixing that and wolfsbane together made for a longer stretch of time for the marks to leave his skin. The collars only ever came off when they were put in the cells, so Jackson had had plenty of experience with not having his on his neck. 

Stiles hated to think about how many more people were out there. Supernatural creatures, whether they were rare like him and Jackson and Lydia, or just hard to catch, like Ben and Claire. How many people had their own ballroom or basement cells, full of people who were being treated as _things_ instead of human beings? What kind of world did they live in where that was okay? 

A shitty one, apparently. If the multiverse was a real thing, he’d ended up in the wrong one, and kind of wanted a do-over. 

“I’m bored,” Jackson said again a few minutes later. “Let’s go get some food.” 

“You don’t have any money,” Stiles reminded him.

“Good thing I’ve got you, then. Come on, I heard Boyd telling Peter it was cherry pie day at the diner today. I’ve never had cherry pie.” 

Stiles let out a slow breath and turned to look at Derek for help. Because Jackson was so, _so_ good at guilting him into things by saying something like _that_. It made the part of him that remembered what it was like being trapped all the time scream that Jackson hadn’t _what_ now? 

Derek just raised his eyebrows in a, “You set him free, he’s _your_ problem,” kind of way and Stiles sighed, shutting his book. 

“You only get one slice, and don’t go crazy on the bill this time. I’m not made of money.” 

“I’m _deprived_ ,” Jackson insisted, sounding offended. 

“You called me fat, you take your punishment like a _man_ ,” Stiles shot back and got to his feet. 

* * *

People didn’t often cross into Beacon Hills looking for Stiles unannounced anymore. Most who knew the Spark was there knew he had a town on his side and a pack at his back. Those who didn’t know the Spark was there didn’t come into town looking for him. 

Stiles hadn’t waited in getting the perimeter spells back up when he’d come back from Satomi’s. He hadn’t done it that first day back, since he’d been out with Peter and then at Harris’, but he’d done it probably the third or fourth day after his return. 

Jackson had followed along while he and Derek walked around the entirety of the town. They could’ve done it by car, but Stiles had felt like taking a walk, and really, it was only about six hours to do a full loop of the town at a leisurely pace. 

He was good at setting up little ones without the walk-around, but the bigger ones had to be done more carefully. He’d walked Satomi’s territory with her a few times during his stay in New Mexico while she strengthened the spell, and he was actually really good at it, now. 

Of course, a spell was only as good as its caster, and anyone of equal or greater talent could easily break through it, or decimate it completely. Some could even pass through it completely undetected. 

The good thing about Stiles’ perimeter spell was that it was very well done, and difficult to break. Satomi may well be one of the only people on the planet who _could_ come through undetected. 

The bad thing about Stiles’ spell was that it was very, _very_ specific in when he got alerted. Someone had come through into their territory looking for him. That was the basis of the spell.

Looking for _him_. 

Which was why he _didn’t_ get woken up by the perimeter being breached while he snored away on the couch with a book on his face and Derek at the computer trying to learn Black Sabbath’s Iron Man. He instead got alerted to the breach four hours later while shovelling roasted potatoes into his mouth, arguing with Jackson about whether or not Kanima venom could be used in any Druid potions while Derek looked like he was regretting every decision he’d ever made in his life at the other end of the table. 

“Hold that thought,” Stiles told Jackson while reaching for the phone buzzing in his pocket. He glanced briefly at the screen before answering. “Yo, what’s up?”

_“Have you seen Lydia?”_

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at the frantic note in Cora’s tone. “No, not since yesterday. She texted me this morning about a book she found, but hasn’t come by to drop it off yet. Why?” 

Derek had paused in cutting up his chicken, watching Stiles and clearly listening in. Jackson didn’t seem to think anything of it and stole one of Stiles’ potatoes since he’d already finished all of his. 

Cora was breathing a little heavy on the other end and Stiles frowned, a gnawing in his stomach over her reaction, but unsure of how he should truly be feeling. 

“Cora, what’s going on?” 

_“Lydia was supposed to meet me over two hours ago. She didn’t show and she’s not answering her phone. No one knows where she is.”_

“Okay,” Stiles said, trying for the calmest tone he had. “Okay, don’t freak out. Maybe her phone just died and she—has a flat or something. Just keep calling around. Derek, Jackson and I will go for a ride around town to see if we can find anything, okay?” 

_“Okay,”_ Cora said, sounding very _not_ okay. _“Parrish has some cops checking around for her, too.”_

“See? She’s in good hands. We’ll find her, it’s probably nothing. I’ll touch base in a bit, okay?” 

_“Okay.”_ She hung up. 

Stiles was slow bringing the phone away from his ear, staring down at the screen until it went black. 

He knew it was probably nothing. He knew that Cora was just overreacting because Lydia was her best friend. He knew Derek would have the same reaction if Stiles had been planning to meet him somewhere and not shown because he’d—slipped on some butter making brownies and bonked his head or something. 

He knew, in his mind, that this was probably just a huge misunderstanding and Lydia was perfectly fine. 

But his gut said something else. 

His gut made him think back to being dropped in a small cell. To walking into a large ballroom full of glass display cases. To seeing a little girl peeking out from behind a torn apart metal wall. 

To a conversation he and Lydia had had a year ago when he’d first met her. 

_“Are Banshees rare?”  
_ _“We’re almost considered endangered. Pathetic, isn’t it? Calling us ‘endangered’ like some kind of animal species? But well, it’s the term they use when discussing Banshees.”_

It hadn’t been that long since Harris for him. Not even a full month. Sometimes he still woke up at night in a cold sweat, his back aching, remembering how it felt to have the power sucked right out of him. Sometimes Jackson said or did things that reminded everyone that he’d been a prisoner in a glass cage for eight years of his life. 

Sometimes Stiles looked at Lydia and Parrish, and thought about what would happen if people from outside knew what they were. Everyone in town knew, but Stiles had already discovered that the people here were like one giant family. They cared about the Supernaturals living here, no matter who or what they were. For both Lydia and Parrish, that care had been hard-earned, but the people _did_ care. 

And Stiles knew that the citizens of Beacon Hills were recognizing that Jackson was something special, too. That they saw how he and Stiles interacted, and they understood what it meant. That Stiles was the last of his kind, and the people around him that he wanted to protect were just as rare as he was. 

It wasn’t impossible to think that someone had heard about the beautiful redheaded Banshee living in Beacon Hills without knowing that the Spark was literally a ten minute drive from her house. They were careful about who knew Stiles was back home, and they hadn’t had any incidents since his return. 

But Lydia wasn’t a protected secret. Parrish wasn’t a protected secret. People didn’t go out of their way to say they had a Banshee and Hellhound in Beacon Hills, but if Supernaturals came up in conversation, it wasn’t like even Stiles had known Banshees were rare. If you grew up with one, went to school with one, made her coffee every now and then, she was just another Supernatural. She wasn’t anything special because she’d always just _been_ there. 

To someone who knew better, she was a goldmine. 

“What’s going on?” Jackson finally asked, evidently sensing the shift in the room. He hadn’t reacted at all to the phonecall, likely figuring Lydia was just a ditzy girly-girl airhead who couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time.

The two of them hadn’t hit it off when they’d met, so Jackson hadn’t tried to get to know her since then. He took offense to Lydia saying he took pleasure in killing Harris, even if Stiles knew it was true. 

To be fair, Jackson couldn’t really be faulted for that. 

“Why are you both acting like she just died? She probably tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and had to go to the ER because she broke a nail.” Jackson stole another potato from Stiles’ plate. 

“Maybe,” Stiles said quietly. “Or maybe another Harris came to town while we weren’t looking.” 

That gave Jackson pause. “Why would someone come looking for Lydia?” 

“She’s a Banshee. They’re rare.” 

Jackson chewed the potato in his mouth while staring at Stiles. He seemed to take an exceptionally long time to finish with the one piece of potato, but eventually dropped his fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and got to his feet. 

“You know, this food kinda sucks. I’m gonna head out, take a look around town at what other food is available. Hey, Lassie. Gimme your phone.” 

Derek didn’t even react to the name, he just pulled his phone out and tossed it to Jackson. The other man caught it, then left the loft. Stiles heard the door at the bottom slam shut a moment later, and knew the only reason Derek wasn’t racing down there to lock it up was because the two of them were about to leave, too. 

“You know he’s going to look for her, right?” Stiles asked him.

The look he got in return was the loudest, “Duh!” he’d ever seen. 

“Right.” Stiles raked a hand through his hair and got to his feet. “Come on, let’s go to the closest edge of the barrier. I want to check something.” 

They headed out quickly, Derek locking the door and then keeping hold of Stiles’ upper arm while heading for the car, head tilted upwards like he was scenting the air and head on a swivel. Stiles knew that Derek was going to be overprotective again if Lydia really _had_ been taken by some kind of Collector. 

He had his moments where he was okay with Stiles out and about without sticking to him like glue, and he was still really good about Stiles wandering around inside their building, but whenever something like this happened, it was back to square one.

At least Stiles didn’t have to shower with the door wide open anymore, but Derek still did. He figured it was out of habit at this point, and it wasn’t like Stiles was going to complain. Derek was a fucking gorgeous specimen, and he had no problems with Derek putting himself on display for him. 

Though he _had_ started closing the door recently. Stiles frowned while climbing into the car, the realization hitting him. It wasn’t like he sat outside the bathroom every time Derek showered and stared while he did so, which was probably why he only just now realized Derek shut the door. Not all the time, and never all the way, but he still _closed_ it. 

It made him think about what Cora had texted him a few weeks back, about Derek jerking off in the shower at the Hale house. He wondered if Derek was having more _alone time_ while in the loft. Which, really, good for him. Stiles jerked off, too. 

He had to wonder who had caught Derek’s interest, because it had started right after their departure from Satomi’s place. Derek didn’t really hang out with any of the girls though, and the only guy he stuck around with was Reed. Derek hadn’t shown any kind of interest in Reed—nevermind Stiles didn’t know if Derek liked guys at all—but maybe he’d missed some signals? 

If everything went well the next few months, maybe he could talk Derek into another visit so that he could see whoever he was infatuated with. He wanted Derek to have nice things, and if someone in the Ito pack was a nice thing, well, he’d do what he could. 

When Derek reached the edge of the Preserve to a point where the car couldn’t go any further, they both climbed out and walked the rest of the way. Derek was tense and holding Stiles’ arm a _little_ too tightly, but he didn’t say anything about it and just tried not to wince. 

Reaching the edge of his spell, Stiles walked up to the shimmer in the air and ran his hand lightly along it. It was still intact, and didn’t feel tampered with. He frowned when he tried to reach out across the entirety of the spell itself, trying to find traces of Lydia. Satomi had taught him how to do this when he’d been staying with her, and while he’d never _had_ to do it before, he felt pretty confident in his ability to replicate it. 

After a few seconds, his fingers tingled and he could feel the break in the barrier where Lydia had passed through. It was on the north side of town, heading out into the more mountainous areas. He frowned, because Lydia _hated_ the outdoors, and if she was meeting Cora, there was no reason for her to have gone out that way. 

Stiles pulled out his phone and dialled Parrish. He answered on the second ring. 

“Hey, are there any cameras you could take a look at for someone heading out towards Peak road? Up into the mountains?” 

_“A few I could get my hands on. Why?”_

“Lydia passed through my barrier on that side of town,” Stiles explained, letting his hand drop from the shimmering air. “Not really her thing. Figured you might have some eyes that way.” 

_“I’ll get on it. You out?”_

“Mm,” Stiles agreed, glancing at his barrier in thought. “Preserve.”

_“You should head back to the loft. We’ll find Lydia. There’s no point in risking having you out and about.”_

Stiles grunted, only half-listening. He knew Derek was, anyway, so there was nothing for him to worry about. He just kept staring at his barrier, said something that might have been a farewell to Parrish, and then hung up. He ran his hand lightly through the shimmer again, Derek moving up beside him and cocking an eyebrow. 

“I didn’t know,” Stiles said, letting his hand fall and turning to Derek. “Someone came for her, and I didn’t know. I just thought—I’m so stupid.” He rubbed at his mouth, feeling selfish. “I knew she was at risk. Her and Parrish, and Mason and Jackson. They’re all rare, I’m not the only one. I’m just the last of my kind.” 

Derek gave him a look for that and Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, and all powerful and whatever, shut up. Mason’s not exactly helpless when he gets his shit together, you know.” 

When he looked back at Derek, the Werewolf had his lips pressed together and his eyebrows raised. He was basically telling Stiles not to sell himself short because he was going to be fucking unstoppable once he got fully powered up. Which, okay fair, Stiles was going to be amazing _one day_ , but not _yet_. 

And that wasn’t his point, anyway. Which Derek seemed to recognize, because he motioned for Stiles to continue. 

“The spell is specific to keeping _me_ safe,” Stiles said, feeling guilty. “If anyone was coming for _me_ specifically. But—it’s not just me anymore. It’s me, and the others. And you.” He glanced at Derek then. “The pack as a whole. I shouldn’t have made the spell so specific. I should’ve thought ahead.” 

Derek’s hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed, a clear, “You didn’t know.” 

“I should have,” he insisted. “If something happened to Lydia, and we could’ve stopped it if only I’d been more proactive...” 

He rubbed his face with both hands, exhaled sharply and let them drop back to his sides. He stared at the barrier for a moment, then raised both hands and started to shift the spell. With the entire thing already erected, he wouldn’t have to go around town again to change it, since it was already connected, but he knew this was going to be hard. 

And exhausting. 

But he was going to do this now, before anything else could go wrong. So he stood there with his hands raised and concentrated. He pulled at pieces of the spell, folding them away ever so slightly so he could string together new threads into it. He wasn’t taking the whole thing down and rebuilding it, he was just amending it, reshaping it a bit. 

He felt when Parrish went through the barrier. Peter and Cora passed a few minutes later. Scott, Isaac and Boyd followed less than thirty seconds after, evidently following right behind the two Hales. He tried not to focus on them, because it was going to mess up his concentration. 

A twig snapped behind him and Derek whipped around. Stiles ignored it, because he knew Derek would handle whatever it was. Apparently, it was nothing—or an animal—because Derek turned back a moment later. 

When Stiles was satisfied with the shift in the spell, he let his hands fall and wavered slightly on the spot. Derek grabbed his elbow to help steady him and Stiles patted lightly at his chest, forcing a small smile. 

“Don’t look so worried, big guy. It’s just a big barrier, is all. Come on, let’s head back.” 

They picked their way back towards where they’d left the Camaro, Stiles’ phone buzzing in his pocket. When he pulled it out, Derek’s name was flashing on the screen. 

“You find any good places to eat?” Stiles asked in greeting. 

_“No, everything here is shit.”_

“Hm. Parrish and some of the others went out to the mountains. Thinking maybe there might be some good food out that way.” 

Jackson hesitated for a moment. _“I think I’d rather head back to the loft and annoy you instead.”_ That was about as close to Jackson speak as ‘I want to make sure you’re okay’ as he was ever going to get. 

“You know you don’t live there, right?”

_“I’ve seen the bed, it’s big enough to fit three. Or we could make Derek sleep on the couch.”_

Derek flashed his teeth at Stiles, which just had him laughing. “Oh yeah, Derek looks real happy with that suggestion.”

_“Lassie shouldn’t be allowed on the bed, anyway.”_

“You remember you’re _also_ a Werewolf, right? Like, you’re half-and-half, you remember that, right?” 

_“Shut up and pick me up before I bully a granny to drive me to the loft.”_

Stiles rolled his eyes while moving up beside the Camaro, opening the door once Derek unlocked it. He asked where Jackson was and confirmed Derek knew how to get there before hanging up. They drove back out of the Preserve and headed for the middle of town. Derek pulled up to the curb where Jackson was waiting, looking antsy and impatient, but somehow still smarmy. 

“Took you long enough,” Jackson snapped, getting into the back and shutting the door. “I’m too pretty to be left out on my own.” 

Derek’s smile was all teeth, a very clear indication that he didn’t agree. Though Stiles was sure he _did_ agree on the Jackson being pretty thing, because really, Jackson _was_ pretty. 

Pretty annoying, pretty aggravating, pretty handsome. The usual. 

They’d just turned around to head back for the loft when Stiles’ phone rang again. Parrish’s name flashed so he answered it and put it to his ear. 

“Did you find her?”

 _“We need you,”_ Parrish said, voice tight. He could hear Cora in the background insisting loudly that everything was going to be okay, it was all fine, to just keep still. _“Right now. We need you.”_

Stiles’ stomach clenched and his hand tightened around the phone. “On our way. Where are you?” 

He gave Stiles the coordinates and Jackson typed them into Derek’s phone, turning on the navigation so they could head out. Derek drove well over the speed limit, but they didn’t hit any cops on their way to Peak road. Stiles felt it when they passed through his perimeter spell, but all that did was make him feel a little more naked than usual. 

He didn’t like not knowing what was coming, and he was really concerned about what had happened with Lydia. Something magic-related, at any rate, but _what_? Cora had sounded so scared, and Parrish had sounded stressed. He was a pretty chill guy, who worked a very stressful job, so to hear him kind of lose his composure meant something bad was happening. 

Stiles bit at his thumbnail, phone clenched in his hand while they listened to the navigation instructions coming out of Derek’s phone. Jackson was leaning forward between the seats, holding the phone out so that Derek and Stiles could both see it. 

They were so intent on what they were doing, where they were going, that Stiles wasn’t sure what happened for a few seconds. One moment he and Jackson were discussing if the fork coming up was the one they had to follow to get where Parrish and the others were, and the next Stiles’ head was pounding and his hands were brushing the roof of the car. It took him entirely too long to realize it was because the car was upside down, all the windows broken and glass shards littered virtually all around them. 

Stiles groaned and shifted in his seat, one hand coming up to touch his head. He had no idea what the fuck had happened. Turning to look at Derek, he saw the Werewolf wincing while pulling a huge chunk of metal out of his side. He let out a snarl when it came free and dropped it, blood flowing freely for a few seconds while the wound attempted to heal. 

“That’s gross,” Stiles informed him, Derek turning to look at him. Evidently Stiles wasn’t in too bad a shape, because Derek looked concerned, but not _panicked_. He groaned again and touched his head where it hurt the most, feeling blood. “Great.” 

Derek unlatched his seatbelt with one hand, the other pressed against the roof of the car so he didn’t just tumble out of his seat. Would’ve been hilarious any other time, but considering they seemed to have gotten into a relatively terrible car accident, probably not a time for jokes. 

Stiles’ blood ran cold when he realized... there were only two of them in the car. 

“Jackson,” he said, eyes wide and looking around urgently. “Jackson! Derek, do you see him? Jackson!” 

Derek’s hand shot to his mouth, covering it quickly. He had his head tilted, listening to something Stiles couldn’t hear. And then, his face went slack for half a second before another look crossed his features. It was a look Stiles had seen only once before, and one he’d severely hoped never to see again.

Oh no.

Oh _no_! 

Stiles hastily undid his seatbelt, half-falling into Derek but managing to right himself quickly enough. 

“Derek. Derek, look at me. Hey!” Stiles grabbed his face with both hands, giving him a small shake. Derek’s eyes were wide and it almost seemed like he’d stopped breathing. “We’re getting out of here. All right? Come on. Let’s find Jackson. Come on.” 

Stiles pushed at Derek to get him to exit on his side of the car. He wasn’t sure what had happened, or where they’d tumbled off the road, but the car was at the bottom of some kind of ravine. Really, Stiles felt like he was lucky the worst he’d gotten was a blow to the head. 

They stumbled out of the car, shoes crunching against glass. Stiles cut his hands open on shards of it, but didn’t worry about the pain. He just focussed on getting them moving, trying to ignore that Derek wasn’t running on all faculties right now. This was fine, Stiles could handle this. 

It wasn’t like last time. He was _better_ now. 

He’d just managed to get Derek away from the car and through some trees when the Werewolf jerked to a halt and whipped his head to the side. Stiles started to think they’d already been spotted, but then Derek grabbed Stiles’ wrist and began pulling him urgently in another direction. 

Stiles understood why a few seconds later when choked gasps and wheezing hit his ears. They rounded another tree and he felt like he was going to be sick. 

“Oh God.” He covered his mouth with one fist, gave himself a second not to puke, then rushed forward with Derek right beside him. “Jackson. Oh fuck. Oh shit.”

Jackson hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt when he’d gotten into the Camaro. He’d been leaning forward between the two seats, talking to Stiles, holding Derek’s phone. So whenever they’d tumbled down the ravine, Jackson was probably the reason some of the windows were broken. He’d evidently gone flying right through one of them, because he was now impaled straight through the chest on a branch just high enough off the ground that his feet couldn’t reach it. 

There was so much blood. Stiles had never seen so much fucking blood. It was on the branch, dripping down Jackson’s front, spilling from his mouth. His eyes were wide, pupils blown. It looked like he was going into shock, his mouth opening and closing even as he tried to breathe, hands hovering somewhere close to where the branch was clean through him. 

“We have to get him down,” Stiles said, voice tight. “Derek, we have to get him down now.” 

Stiles could tell Derek was freaking out. It looked like he was at war with himself, between grabbing Stiles and bolting, or helping someone who was kind of sort of turning into a pretty good friend. Oh, and also, he could probably hear the crazy bitch who’d kept him prisoner for a few years searching through the woods for him. That too.

“Fuck!” Stiles hissed and reached for his phone. 

Except his pocket was empty. Because he’d had his phone clenched in his hand after the call with Parrish. And Derek’s phone had been in Jackson’s hand. Both of them had gone flying when their car went off the road. 

Stiles was pretty sure their car careening down a ravine wasn’t just an accident. Fucking God damn Kate Argent. 

“Derek!” Stiles grabbed his face again and gave him a shake. “I know you’re scared. I know she’s here. But _we have to get him down_! Help me!” 

Derek looked two seconds away from a total meltdown, but he grabbed at Stiles’ wrists briefly, as if for strength, inhaled deeply, then turned to Jackson. Stiles moved to his other side, knowing Derek would do most of the work but wanting to help either way. 

He didn’t know what the best thing to do was. Should they break the branch so there was less to pull him off of? Should they just slide him back along it? Stiles felt sick just thinking about it. 

When Derek grabbed at Jackson’s shoulder, about to do— _something_ , Stiles had a thought and held his hand up. 

“Wait. Wait, I can... just hold onto him.” 

Derek shifted his grip on Jackson, who was still conscious through all this, fucking _Christ_. Stiles really felt like he was going to vomit right now. 

He placed one hand on the trunk behind Jackson, and one on the blood-coated branch his friend was impaled on. Shutting his eyes, he concentrated as hard and fast as he could. He was still pretty tired from what he’d done to the barrier, but this was _important_ and he was _not_ letting Jackson die here. 

He could hear Derek shifting nervously, evidently able to hear people getting closer. Stiles almost snapped for him not to rush him, but he forced himself to use that panic and not freeze like he had last time with Harris. 

When he heard a slight thump and Derek grunted, Stiles released the spell and opened his eyes. Thankfully, it had worked. He’d made the tree intangible so that Jackson could just phase right through it. Same as Stiles had done to the wall in the cell where he’d first met the guy. 

Derek picked Jackson up in his arms, even as the Kanima’s hands shook, hovering above the gaping wound in his chest. Stiles knew he was part Werewolf, and he had superhealing, but he honestly didn’t know if this was too much for him.

“Go,” Stiles insisted, motioning for Derek to lead the way. “Go!” 

Derek turned, but kept his eyes on Stiles, who quickly moved up beside him. He grabbed one of Derek’s shirt-sleeves in one hand, since it wasn’t exactly brightly lit, and pressed the other to Jackson’s chest. 

He wasn’t good at healing spells, and he knew he’d probably run out of magic faster than normal, but he forced himself to concentrate anyway, trying to help close up the wound in Jackson’s chest. 

It was clear that there were a lot of people after them. And that they were coming from all sides. Derek looked ten different kinds of freaked out, stressed out of his mind, and kept turning them around to go in another direction. Jackson was still gasping for air in his arms, Stiles’ hand was coated in blood, and his brain was screaming that they were in trouble. 

They were in so, so much trouble. 

Derek had just skid to a halt and started to turn urgently in another direction when Stiles heard a ‘thwap’ sound and then Derek roared, stumbling a step and dropping Jackson. The Kanima hit the ground hard with a thud, and Derek slammed one hand into Stiles’ chest, shoving him away before he was quite literally wrenched off his feet. 

There was some kind of metal arrow clean through one of Derek’s legs, right down by the ankle. It was attached to what looked like a chain and he was being dragged backwards, roaring and clawing at the ground, trying to twist around so he could attempt to break free.

“Derek!” Stiles bolted after him, but the roar he got in response made him skid to a halt. 

Derek’s red eyes blazed in the darkness, and they were louder than any words he ever could’ve said. 

_Run!_

* * *

Stiles had no fucking idea where he was going. He wanted to scream and explode a whole bunch of trees. Light the whole fucking place on fire. Just—fucking _anything_ other than what he was doing right now. 

Which was run, just as Derek had asked of him. 

He didn’t _want_ to run. Because Kate was here, and Derek was terrified. Now he was also probably captured. And Jackson was fucking _bleeding out_ on the forest floor somewhere. And Stiles _didn’t have his phone_ and he didn’t know what to do. He fucking _didn’t know what to **do**_! 

The only thing he knew for certain was he wasn’t leaving either of them. He was running, like Derek asked, but only so he could regroup and get his shit together. Figure out a plan. He was _not_ letting that fucking _bitch_ have Derek back. He would literally rather _die_ than let her have him back. 

He just didn’t know what to do, so he ran. He ran until his lungs burned, and when he tripped his way right into a lake, he submerged himself in the water, clenched his eyes shut, and forced himself to turn invisible. Because even if they could hear him, they weren’t Werewolves. They wouldn’t find him. He could just go invisible, figure out where he was, and get Derek back. 

Jackson... was harder. Hopefully his healing had kicked in by now. Even if he passed out, as long as he healed, Stiles would find him. He and Derek could retrace their steps, sniff him out. First, Stiles had to help Derek. 

Climbing back out of the spring, breathing hard and feeling more adrenalined up than ever before in his fucking _life_ , he stumbled up the river bank and spun in a circle, trying to find the road. Presumably if Hunters were here, they’d used the road. He was sure Kate had done something to send their car flying over the side, so he just had to find the road, and he’d find Derek. 

He wasn’t leaving him behind. He fucking _wasn’t_! He was going to find him, and he was going to bring him home! 

Stiles clenched his invisible hands into fists while staring down at where they should be, the world distorted around them to bend the light back in on itself. He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a breath. 

“I know you don’t work this way,” Stiles whispered, as if begging his hands to obey him. “I know tracking spells only work on things that I’ve marked for tracking. But this is _Derek_. Please. Please just... do something.” 

He shouldn’t have listened to him. He shouldn’t have run. If he didn’t find him again, Stiles was never going to forgive himself. 

But he’d only run because he needed time to think. And he also knew that Derek would literally die to defend him. If Stiles wasn’t in any immediate danger, Derek would focus on himself. Having Stiles there would’ve been more of a hindrance. 

“Please,” Stiles whispered. “Please, I can’t lose him.” 

He opened his eyes and stared down at where his hands should be. 

And saw nothing. 

Nothing was happening. 

He wanted to punch a fucking tree. What good was all this super powerful magic if it didn’t do what he needed it to when it mattered most? Why couldn’t anything just _work_ when it came to Derek?! 

Stiles had just whipped around to punch the closest tree when he almost stumbled at the sight of a thread. It was a very faint thread, barely noticeable and flickering weakly in the darkness, but it was there. It looked like it was coming from his chest, and it was leading off into the trees. 

He had no idea what it was, or if it was even going to bring him to Derek, but he followed it anyway. He tried to grab at it, wanting to feel something tangible, but his fingers passed right through it. When he turned to glance over his shoulder, he saw nothing. The thread was literally coming from him, connecting him to Derek. 

He hoped, anyway.

It was red in colour, and he felt like maybe it was the blood oath. Maybe the oath that had been made all those years ago had an actual visual bond. If that was true, then theoretically he should have three, since there were three Hales, but maybe Derek was just the closest one. Maybe the thread was so diluted from all the generations of Prawdziks and Gevaudan that Stiles and Derek’s thread was only even visible if they were close to each other geographically. 

Stiles was making a fucking racket stumbling through the woods like he was, but he didn’t worry about it for now. He was invisible and following a thread, he was sure when there was cause for concern, he would know about it. 

It seemed to take him an eternity to reach an incline, and then another eternity to climb it. He was so fucking tired, and _scared_ , and worried he’d just lost the most important person in his life to a fucking psychopath. 

He was halfway up the hill when he heard the voices and froze immediately. They sounded like they were arguing and Stiles continued his ascent much more quietly. He couldn’t make out what they were saying yet, but he was getting closer to the road, and lights. There hadn’t been any lights on the road itself, off the beaten path, but there were a number of cars with the headlights on in the middle of the road. 

He recognized Gerard’s voice, and it sounded like he was really pissed. There was a loud smack, like he’d hit someone, and then muttering. 

Stiles made it up to the road, crouching instinctively, and tried to get a good look at what was going on. His chest clenched in both fear and relief when he saw Jackson lying in the middle of the road. There were two men aiming shotguns at him, and he looked like he was unconscious, but Stiles could see his chest rising and falling. He still had a gaping hole through his torso, but it looked like it was healing _just enough_ to keep him alive. 

His eyes quickly sought out the thread once more, and he had to move around one of the cars to follow it. He let out a sharp exhale when his eyes found Derek. And evidently, Derek knew he was there, because his gaze shot to him and he tugged at one of the chains around his wrists. 

It looked like the hunters had wrapped either wrist with chains, which were connected to the front bumper of two cars. They’d forced him to keep his arms extended outward, and it looked like they were using the cars as both a way to keep him contained—he _was_ a Werewolf, and therefore exceptionally strong—and also as a silent threat. 

Derek tugged at one wrist again, chains clinking loudly, but the driver of that car revved his engine threateningly. 

The Werewolf was on his knees, the arrow attached to the chain still in his leg, blood staining his jeans and the ground he was kneeling on. It looked like another one had gone through his opposite thigh, though had been removed and the wound had healed up. They had not won that fight against Derek easily. 

“This wasn’t the plan,” a man Stiles didn’t know said angrily. “We agreed to come for the Spark, not Kate’s pet. If we bring him with us, we risk them escaping. You heard what happened with Deucalion, and the wolf won’t stop fighting back to protect the Spark.” 

“You don’t get to decide that,” Kate’s voice said, Stiles inching back slightly at the sight of her, even though he knew he was invisible. He just worried she could somehow see him like Mason could, even though he knew she was just a regular Witch. 

Kate walked past the man, who was scowling at her and looking annoyed, and Stiles tensed when she moved up to Derek. He could see every muscle in Derek’s body go taut at her approach, and he started to lean away from her when she bent down _really_ close, his breathing coming a bit more erratically. 

Stiles had never seen Derek lose his composure like this before, and he had to forcibly hold himself back when Kate dragged the nails of her left hand through Derek’s hair, the other cradling his face. 

“Aw, baby. I missed you so much. Haven’t you missed me? We had so much fun together, didn’t we?” 

When she went to kiss him, Derek tugged hard at his bonds, both cars actually giving ground, and he went to bite her in the face. Kate managed to jerk back _just_ fast enough to avoid getting her face ripped off and she let out a loud laugh. 

“Oh sweetie, did you forget all your training?” The hand in his hair tightened and wrenched his head back. Derek was breathing hard, eyes blazing red and fangs in his mouth. “You know biting is off the table. Especially now, considering.” She’d pulled a knife from somewhere and Stiles tensed when he saw her tapping the tip lightly against Derek’s temple, right beside one of his red eyes. “If your sister hadn’t come for you, maybe she’d still be alive. If you’d just done what I’d said, maybe I wouldn’t have had to take your voice. You really are your own worst enemy, Derek.” 

“Enough,” Gerard said, moving forward and pushing Kate aside almost roughly. He crouched in front of Derek, who was clenching his jaw and still breathing hard, but managing to hide enough of his fear to look defiant. “Where is he? We had everything planned out perfectly, and yet when we reeled you in, he was nowhere to be found. So where. Is. He?” 

Derek just stared straight ahead and said nothing. Stiles wondered if Gerard was too stupid to remember Derek couldn’t speak, or if he already knew it was a fruitless endeavour and was just trying to make himself feel better. 

After a few moments of silence, Gerard nodded slowly, swiped one hand over his mouth, and stood. He turned to one of the men who’d approached with him, then nodded his head at Derek. 

“Kill him.” 

Stiles didn’t know what sound he made, but evidently one he shouldn’t have, because three different people whipped around to look at where he was crouched beside the car. Gerard hadn’t heard, but he noticed them move and put his hand out to stop the man he’d just ordered into action. He said something to him quietly, then turned to say something else to Kate. Both statements were too low for Stiles to hear, but he could guess at what they were. 

The man moved up to Derek and pressed the gun right up against his forehead. Kate had moved to kneel behind him, pressing herself against his back and wrapping one arm around his middle, the other around his neck, knife against his jugular. She was grinning and bit at his ear, but when Derek tried to jerk his head away, the blade bit into his skin and a drop of blood slowly slid down his throat. 

Gerard was looking around, walking in a wide circle inside the ring of cars. 

“I know you’re out there,” he said, a small smile on his lips. He looked entirely too pleased with himself while he walked a slow circle. The guy who’d been arguing about Derek a moment ago crossed his arms over his chest when Gerard passed him, but didn’t react otherwise. “Why don’t you come out so we can talk?”

Stiles hunkered down further behind the car, eyes locked on Derek. He tried to put a shield between the gun and Derek’s head, but there was literally no space for him to do that. The spell needed room to properly form a shield, and there just wasn’t any with the way the guy was pressing the barrel into Derek’s forehead. 

“I am not a patient man, Spark,” Gerard informed him, even as Stiles cycled through every spell he could think of. His brain flipped through pages and pages of books at lightning speed, trying to pick one out he could use to save Derek. If he could just _freeze time_ like he had back at Harris’, this would be so much easier. 

_Come on, come **on** ,_ he insisted, clenching his eyes shut and concentrating. He already felt exhausted, but if there was one thing he knew about himself, it was that he could force magic out of him to save Derek’s life. He just needed to figure out what he’d done, how to do it again, how to _save Derek_. 

“You have five seconds to come out,” Gerard told him loudly. “If you don’t, Hale gets a bullet to the brain. And then you’ll have five more seconds, before your new friend gets the same treatment. One.” 

Stiles’ eyes snapped open and he felt his heart jerk in his chest. Derek was breathing hard from his spot between the two cars, resolutely looking straight ahead, but with an expression Stiles recognized. 

“Don’t do it,” it said. “Stiles, don’t you _fucking_ do it!” 

“Two,” Gerard continued, still making his slow circle. 

Stiles’ brain began flipping through pages faster. Kate was still biting at Derek’s ear, a smile on her face, like she already knew they’d won and her father would have Stiles, and she would have Derek. 

“Three.” 

What could he do? What could he _do_? There was nothing. All he kept thinking about was the shield, but that wasn’t going to work. Witch magic was out. Mage magic was hella out. Warlock magic was offensive and liable to just kill Derek faster. 

“Four.” 

There was nothing, there was _nothing_ , _therewasnothing_! 

“F—”

“Wait!” Stiles stood up and stumbled out from behind the car, raising his hands while going visible and ignoring the snarl from Derek as he moved forward. “Wait, ju—just wait.” He fell to his knees just inside the circle of cars, hands still raised, and felt like he was going to be sick. 

He was breathing so hard he was probably hyperventilating more than anything, his vision swimming while he watched Gerard Argent approach him. He did so slowly, looking pleased, like he’d won the easiest game he’d ever played. 

“Please just... just wait.” 

Gerard stopped right in front of him, bending down slightly, like he wanted to get a better look at him. “Hello Spark. We didn’t get the chance to speak last time. That wasn’t very polite of you.” 

Stiles’ jaw worked but he said nothing, swallowing hard and keeping his hands raised. He wondered if he could blast Gerard away. If he could just fucking torpedo him across the continent. But if he did that, they’d shoot Derek without a second’s hesitation, and he couldn’t. 

He _couldn’t_ lose Derek. He couldn’t. He would rather live the rest of his life in a glass cage, or in a metal one, or just fucking _anywhere_ as long as Derek was alive. He could survive anything as long as he knew Derek was okay. 

“You’ve grown since I last saw you,” Gerard informed him. “Well, not since the _last_ time I saw you, but the time before that.” 

Stiles didn’t understand.

At first. 

It wasn’t until Derek growled and the chains rattled that the words sank in and he realized what they meant. 

Gerard had seen him once before. _Before_ the last time he’d seen him. When Stiles was younger. 

Smaller. Easier to manipulate. 

Stiles’ eyes snapped up to Gerard’s craggy, smirking face. 

“You killed my mother.” 

“She was being difficult,” Gerard told him, still looking infinitely pleased. “And then your father had to go off and hide you. Inconvenient. Fourteen years I was looking for you. Fourteen years of trying to use the knowledge I had to find you. And then Deucalion is the one who manages it.” He let out a bitter laugh and then groaned while getting back to his feet, staring down at Stiles from a much higher position. He liked the power dynamic that implied, if the look on his face was anything to go by. 

“I’d have preferred to have you while you were still young. Pliable, easy to manipulate. But well, this’ll have to do.”

When Gerard turned to say something to— _someone_ , Stiles spoke before he could get the words out. 

“You’re going to let Derek and Jackson go.” 

Gerard turned back to him, eyebrows raised and a small laugh escaping him. “Am I, now? I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands.” 

Stiles glared up at Gerard with every ounce of hatred he had. “You are not taking Derek. You want me, fine. I’ll go with you. I’ll even go quietly.” He ignored the angry jerk of chains from his right. “But I know Derek would rather die than go back there. So you let him go, or he’ll die before you even get him in the car. And if he dies, I won’t cooperate. Let him go. Now.” 

Gerard was silent for a moment, watching Stiles. He looked like he was thinking, and evidently, the silence was distressing to Kate. 

“Dad,” she insisted, but he held a hand up to silence her. 

He just kept staring down at Stiles, kneeling at his feet, both hands up in surrender, and fire burning in his eyes. 

Gerard very slowly crouched back down again so they were at eye level. “You listen to me, little boy. If I let him live, if I let him _go_ , you will come with me. You will obey me. You will do as I say. If you don’t, you’ll _wish_ I killed him, because I am going to torture him for as long as his body can hold out, and I’m going to make you _watch_. Are we clear?” 

Stiles’ heart was pounding in his chest, his gorge rising and his hands trembling. Gerard noticed, if the glance he shot them was anything to go by. 

“Clear,” Stiles agreed. 

Gerard nodded once, smiled like a kindly old grandfather, and stood up. “Kate, put restrictors on him. Chris, get the cuffs.” 

Stiles saw the man who’d previously been arguing uncross his arms and move towards one of the cars. Kate was stomping angrily on her way over, like a child having a tantrum, but she didn’t disobey. She stopped in front of Stiles, looking livid, and grabbed both of his wrists. 

Derek was snarling and tugging hard at the chains. The cars shifted and groaned, but one of them evidently pressed lightly on the gas because Derek let out a loud grunt. Stiles knew that wouldn’t last long. He’d let his arms get ripped clean off if he had to in order to stop Stiles from doing this. 

“Don’t flinch,” Kate said mockingly, and Stiles grunted when his wrists _burned_. He clenched his jaw to keep quiet, gaze locked on her angry one. When she pulled her hands away, Stiles saw the same bands around his wrists that he’d always had on his left one growing up. It was the same magic, the same spell his mother had used, though these ones were black instead of brown. He didn’t know if that was because the spell was just that bit different, or if his mother had specifically made his brown on purpose so it looked like a weird birthmark at first glance. 

Either way, he wasn’t thrilled to see it again. And two instead of just the one this time, probably for double the pain when he got emotional. He figured Kate wasn’t strong enough to repress all his magic, which was why she’d put two on. And when he saw the cuffs, he had a sick feeling he’d experienced _those_ before, too. 

They didn’t look like anything special at first, just two steel manacles. They didn’t even link together, like they were just some kind of neat accessory. But when Gerard held his hand out for one of them and snapped it open, Stiles saw the small spikes inside, and his thoughts went back to a disc latching onto his back and sucking all the power out of him. 

Derek started fighting harder and Gerard turned to him. “If you don’t settle down over there, I’ll take those arms from you.”

“No you won’t,” Stiles said darkly. 

Gerard turned to him, offering a small, vicious smile. “I said I’d let him live, not that he’d stay in one piece.” 

“Then you figure out a way to incapacitate him _without_ ripping off any limbs,” Stiles snapped. 

“Kate,” Gerard said, turning to his daughter. “Your pet’s being a pain. Make him stop.” 

She sneered at her father, clearly still upset about not being allowed to keep Derek, but obediently moved towards him. Stiles watched to make sure she wasn’t about to do anything dangerous, and let Gerard snap one of the cuffs in place. The spikes bit into his skin instantly and he felt blood well up, making the inside of the cuff slick and uncomfortable. 

He also felt even worse than he had after using all that magic earlier. He could feel his energy slowly seeping out of him, but he forced himself to keep watching Kate as she approached Derek. He snarled and snapped at her, the man with the gun stepping to one side, but she just slid one hand through his hair, whispered something in his ear, and then Derek slumped forward, head bowed and being held up only by the chains on either wrist. 

Panic pierced through Stiles instantly. 

“What did you do? What did you _do_?!” 

“Relax,” Kate insisted, sounding annoyed. “I just sent him on a little ride. Round and round.” She spun one finger in the air in a circle, and Stiles realized she’d used the vertigo spell on him. Derek was still breathing, and he clenched his fists and tugged every few seconds, but he couldn’t seem to focus enough to figure out what way he should be tugging, or how hard. 

Stiles grunted and turned back to Gerard when the second cuff snapped into place. His arm was grabbed and he was wrenched to his feet, stumbling and almost falling on his face from the amount of power being sucked out of him. 

“Easy now,” Gerard said, one arm around his waist and helping him keep his feet. “That’s it. Come on.” 

“You said you’d let him go,” Stiles insisted, turning his head to look over at Derek. 

“And we will. Once you’re in the car, we’re going to release him.” 

“If you break our deal—” 

“You keep your end of things,” Gerard said, opening a car door and motioning him in, “I’ll keep mine.” 

Stiles cast one last look at Derek before getting into the car. Gerard helped buckle him in, Stiles leaning his forehead against the window once the door shut, feeling sick and weak and... 

Stupid.

So stupid. 

Derek was never going to forgive him for this. For as long as he lived, Derek was never going to forgive him. He was going to hate him for having done this, and he knew it.

But Stiles couldn’t lose him. He couldn’t let Derek die. Not Derek. 

_Not Derek_. 

Gerard got in on the other side, and once his door was slammed, Stiles watched the people outside begin to unwrap the chains from around Derek’s wrists. He fell forward once he was free, hands clawing at the ground slightly while he shook his head and struggled to stand, but unable to. Kate marched to another car and slammed her door extremely hard once she was inside, clearly pissed off at having had Derek so close, only to be told she couldn’t keep him.

If nothing else, Stiles was grateful for that. 

One of the Hunters kicked at Derek, making him keel over onto his side. The Hunter kicked him again to get him onto his stomach, and Stiles’ heart lurched into his throat when the man aimed a rifle down at him. 

“Wait!” 

Derek roared loud enough for it to echo through the trees for miles when what looked like a fucking harpoon shot through his shoulder and buried itself in the asphalt beneath him.

Stiles rounded on Gerard, vision swimming. “You said you wouldn’t hurt him!” 

“I said I wouldn’t _kill_ him,” he said again impatiently. “I can’t have him following once Kate’s spell wears off. It’ll take him some time to pull that out of the ground. Or himself off it. By then, we’ll be long gone.” He pulled what looked like a walkie-talkie from inside his jacket and brought it up to his lips, the man who’d just shot Derek getting behind the wheel of the car Stiles and Gerard were in. “Kate, how far can you hold the spell?” 

A short pause, a crackle, then, _“About half a mile.”_

“Good enough. Keep him down as long as you can. I want to make sure we’re as far away as possible before he regains his mobility.” 

The car started and Stiles turned back to look out the window. The others had all returned to their vehicles, leaving Jackson in the middle of the road, still unconscious with a hole in his chest, and Derek pinned to the ground and suffering from vertigo, even as he tried to claw at what was in his shoulder keeping him down. 

Stiles leaned his forehead against the glass again, eyes on Derek while the car turned. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, watching the lights shift away from Derek at the car’s new direction. “I’m so sorry.” 

Derek was never going to forgive him for this. 

Stiles closed his eyes, feeling tired, and weak, and fucking _terrified_ , but unwilling to let Gerard know that. He was going to do what he had to do for as long as he could, and when the old man thought he’d broken him, when he thought he’d made him into what he wanted, Stiles was going to run. 

He was going to get out. He was going to go back to Derek. 

And Gerard Argent would rue the day he’d thought to come after the last Spark in existence. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- There is a really terrible accident wherein Jackson is thrown from a vehicle and impaled on a tree. It's not super descriptive, but Stiles does react to it really badly. This is why seatbelts are important, kiddies!  
> \- Kate is in this chapter, and so is Derek, and she is close to Derek, and ickiness happens. Not too much and nothing explicit, but still icky.  
> \- Derek is abused/injured in this chapter; he is shot a few times and purposefully impaled to pin him to the ground. He's okay, I promise, but he has a really rough night. 
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> Lassie (c) Eric Knight


	15. Good Old Argent Hospitality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so cute y'all thought yesterday's cliffhanger sucked :) Enjoy this one :) <3

Stiles felt like the first few hours with the Argents were the worst. Not because they did anything particularly malicious—though they did, many things—but because he had so much time to _think_. 

After getting as far out from Beacon Hills as they could, the Argents had pulled over and Kate had used a blinding spell on Stiles. They didn’t want him to know where he was going, which made sense overall since it was hard for him to get help if he didn’t know where the help needed to go.

Being blind was awful. Stiles had had multiple panic attacks, during which Gerard had pulled him close and shushed him gently, like a father soothing a frightened child. 

Stiles had hated that more than being blind. 

They’d also knocked him out a few times, likely to further fuck with his sense of direction. He always woke up groggy and feeling sick, and it took him a few panicked seconds to remember he was being forcibly blinded given he’d open his eyes and see fucking _nothing_. 

When they’d finally reached the Argent estate—not house, _estate_ , because apparently assholes got paid by the truckload—Stiles had been manhandled into the house and down multiple flights of stairs. The cuffs stayed on, and he’d expected chains or something, but apparently not on his wrists. Instead, two more cuffs—regular ones, thankfully—were snapped around his ankles with a chain connecting them. Likely so he couldn’t run, which sucked, but he wasn’t surprised. All of that was followed by the loud clang of a metal gate, and only then was he allowed his vision back.

Overall, it wasn’t awful—barring the magic-sucking manacles, chains, and magically enhanced cage door. He had a small but comfortable-looking bed with blankets and a pillow. He had a bookshelf with some reading material, likely to keep him entertained so he didn’t die of boredom. He had a toilet in the corner with a curtain to block him from sight, along with a sink. The shower was outside the cage, but Stiles was sure the door leading out of the room was also magically enhanced. He had to wonder what kind of magic user had the power to stop a Spark, but then again, Stiles’ magic was heavily muted given the cuffs. 

He also didn’t know much about Darachs, and knew Jennifer was still under Gerard’s employment since he’d heard her voice upstairs while he’d been led through the house. 

Once he’d had time to look around a bit, Gerard started in on a big spiel. They would treat him kindly if he did as they said. Any disobedience would result in one of his ‘luxuries’ being taken away. 

Stiles was fairly certain it wouldn’t take long for everything to go but the toilet, and only because it was bolted into the floor. But who knew, maybe they’d take that, too. 

They left him to get ‘settled in’ and Stiles just sat in the furthest corner he could in his cage and thought. His mind was going a mile a minute, thinking back on every decision he’d made, every choice, every action. 

If he hadn’t found Derek up on the road, maybe Derek would’ve been more focussed on getting away instead of worrying about Stiles being _right there_. 

If he hadn’t let Derek bully him into leaving him behind, maybe Stiles could’ve gotten him free and they’d have saved Jackson. 

If he’d snapped at Jackson to put his fucking seatbelt on, maybe they’d have managed to escape together and avoid being hunted through the forest. 

If he’d thought about why Lydia had been taken but held close enough to town and needing his magic, maybe he’d have realized sooner that it was a trap. 

If he’d just fucking made the barrier _properly_ , Lydia wouldn’t have been taken in the first place for any of this to happen! 

Stiles let his head thunk back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling with his forearms resting against his bent knees. He was tired. And in pain. And kind of scared. 

He knew he was only tired because of the cuffs, but he also didn’t know what having a constant drain on his magic would do to him. He’d gotten weak, tired and cold with Satomi and Derek when he’s been suffering from magic deficiency, but this was different. 

This was literally his magic getting sucked out of him. Constantly. Not to mention the restrictor bands around his wrists beneath the cuffs. Overkill, in his opinion, but he supposed they couldn’t be too careful. If he managed to get his magic strong enough to counteract the cuffs, the restrictors would stop him from being able to do anything.

At least, he guessed that was the intention. He doubted Kate was as powerful as his mother. At full strength, maybe he could burn them off with enough magic. With the cuffs? That wasn’t happening. 

He wasn’t sure how long they let him sit alone downstairs, but a good few hours, at least. Considering it had been late in the evening when they’d taken him, and he had no idea how long they’d been on the road, he guessed they’d all taken a well-deserved rest and passed out in their rooms. He didn’t hear anyone closeby, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have cameras. Or even a silent guard stationed outside.

Kate seemed to enjoy taking things from people, after all. Derek’s voice, Stiles’ eyes, Laura’s life. Though that last one was apparently Gerard, Stiles was sure she helped. 

Eventually, he heard movement up above and light footsteps headed down the stairs. Stiles shifted his gaze to the door, but didn’t move otherwise. When it opened, a girl who couldn’t be any older than him poked her head in and smiled. He just stared back impassively.

“Hi,” she said, going for cheerful and faltering slightly at the underwhelming response.

What had she been expecting, friendship bracelets and BFF tattoos? 

“I’m Allison,” she said, moving further into the room. She had a tray of food in her hands and while Stiles’ stomach growled at the sight of it and saliva flooded his mouth, he was _not_ eating _anything_ they gave him. 

“You’re Stiles, right?”

“Oh, I’m allowed to keep my name?” Stiles asked bitingly. “That’s a relief, I thought I’d be a number.”

Allison looked surprised at his reaction, moving closer to the gate that separated them. “Of course you keep your name, why wouldn’t you?”

Stiles gave her an incredulous look. “You’re not serious. Are you brain-damaged?”

“No, but you might be.” She turned to glance up at the ceiling. “Are we not going to clean that blood off him and tend to that head wound?”

Stiles had honestly forgotten he was recently in an accident. Being kidnapped kind of had his complete attention. 

Though it did answer the camera question, not that he was surprised. Considering the trouble Gerard had gone through to get him, he wasn’t exactly going to leave things to chance. 

Allison didn’t receive a response, not that she seemed to be expecting one since she just turned back to the cage and bent down to slide the tray into his little cell. There was a gap just barely high enough to allow the cup of juice to fit when the tray slid under it.

He stared down at the food, ignoring how badly he knew he needed it. There were even two chocolate chip cookies along with the eggs and toast, which would do wonders for his magic deficiency, but he was _not_ eating anything they gave him.

“Sorry, we weren’t sure what you liked so we played it safe,” Allison said, offering him another kind smile, a dimple in one cheek. “We have coffee too, if you want some. I didn’t want to balance it on the tray and risk ruining your breakfast only to find out you’re not a coffee guy. And do you have any allergies? We want to make sure we don’t give you anything that might cause you discomfort.”

Stiles just stared at her incredulously again. Didn’t want to give him anything that would cause him _discomfort_?! Everything about his situation right now was causing him _discomfort_! 

He was done with this idiotic conversation and just returned his gaze to the ceiling, head back against the wall and struggling not to get too pissed off. He didn’t want magic leaking out because, not only would it hurt given the restrictors, but he didn’t need to be feeding the cuffs. They were sucking enough magic, no need to just offer it up on a silver platter.

Allison stuck around for a few more minutes, trying to make conversation, but he ignored her. He figured she’d been sent down because she was personable, close to his age, and hadn’t been there when her buddies had been hurting his friends and forcing Stiles into submission. He didn’t care that she hadn’t been there, she was here _now_ , and she could see what was happening to him and didn’t care. That made her no better.

It would’ve been like Stiles ignoring that Mason was clearly in trouble with Ennis. He supposed not everyone had a heart, he shouldn’t have thought someone _here_ would have one. 

She went back upstairs after a while and Stiles stayed in his corner staring at the ceiling. He heard a muffled conversation at the top of the stairs, then Allison’s louder voice saying, “I didn’t realize grandpa didn’t want him to know about the camera! But I mean, he’d have spotted it eventually, he’s not stupid.” 

The other person shushed her loudly but Stiles just frowned a little. He didn’t understand why people thought he wouldn’t have assumed there was a camera. It also explained a bit more about Allison. 

Namely, she was an Argent. He almost started to wonder if she was Kate’s daughter before dismissing the fact violently. His brain had unwillingly gone to Derek being the father, which he knew was impossible given Allison’s age, but still a direction he didn’t want to go in. He chose to believe she was someone else’s kid. 

When the conversation moved away from the door, Stiles’ eyes strayed to the food without his consent and he forcibly went back to looking at the ceiling. He dozed off at some point, but not for long. It was loud upstairs now that it was daytime so he kept getting woken up. 

Not that he cared, he doubted he’d ever sleep again, considering. Still, it’d alleviate his hunger, at least. He wished they’d come take his breakfast away. 

It was a few hours before someone _did_ come down to take his tray, but only because they brought down a fresh one for lunch sporting more juice, a sandwich, two cookies and a small salad. The man scowled down at the uneaten breakfast but said nothing as he swapped the trays out and headed back upstairs. No small talk from him, which Stiles was kind of thankful for. 

When dinner came around with the same outcome, this time a woman coming down to swap out the trays, Stiles could tell that this wasn’t going to fly because before the end of the day, he got a visit from Gerard himself. He’d come down with Kate and that Chris guy, and the way they all held themselves made him feel like they were related. Chris was likely Gerard’s son then.

He hoped Allison belonged to him.

“I see you’ve been taking advantage of our hospitality,” Gerard said with a small smile, like he was a comedian and this was all some huge fucking joke. 

“Yeah, nicest cell I’ve ever been in. Colour scheme could use some work, and I’m not a huge fan of the light fixtures, but we can always redecorate,” Stiles quipped back, keeping his gaze on the ceiling. 

“I think you can learn to appreciate what you’ve been given if some of it was removed,” Gerard said, reminding him of the threat from the previous night. He didn’t say it very heatedly though, likely knowing that he wasn’t going to scare Stiles into behaving by taking away things he wasn’t even using. 

“Take whatever you like,” Stiles offered. “I’ve got plenty to spare.”

There was a brief silence then, like Gerard was chewing something over. Stiles wasn’t a patient person, but for Gerard? He could learn to wait. He wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction. 

Eventually, he finally spoke, Stiles feeling a bit of smug satisfaction at how childish the man sounded, even if he kept his tone somewhat exasperated and reprimanding.

“You told me that if I let that wolf live, you would behave.”

“I said I would go with you,” Stiles shot back, turning to look at him and offering a small, condescending smile. It was very reminiscent of the conversation he and the old man had had about Derek’s well-being.

Well, two could play that game, and Stiles was _really_ stubborn. Honestly, he wondered if he could hold out long enough so that he just starved to death. 

Gerard’s expression tightened into something decidedly unkind at Stiles’ words and he moved a step closer to the bars, crouching so they were almost eye to eye with the entirety of the cage between them. 

He reached into his back pocket to pull out his cell phone. Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he just kept his expression neutral.

“I have two things I’d like to share with you, boy.” Gerard tapped something on his phone, then Stiles saw his finger slowly swipe upwards.

He didn’t notice. Not at first. Stiles had been exhausted all day, and with no sleep and no food, he wasn’t exactly in a position to notice how terrible he felt.

But slowly. Very slowly. As Gerard’s finger slowly slid up, he could feel himself beginning to sag more against the wall. His stomach clenched and his limbs felt heavy and that was when he realized that the effects of the cuffs were getting stronger.

More magic was being pulled from him, like there was a kind of power level to the cuffs, and he knew Gerard was trying to make a point. 

Stiles wouldn’t let him. He just sagged further, let his eyes slide shut, and honestly wondered if it was possible to just die by having all his magic sucked out of him.

He didn’t have a death wish, but he also knew he wasn’t going to get out of here. He’d rather die than be used as a weapon, so if Gerard was going to kill him, then at least he’d be free.

His chest ached at the thought of leaving Derek behind. He’d be devastated, and Stiles hated doing that to him. He hadn’t managed to break his curse, either. He didn’t like the idea of leaving without being able to help Derek like he’d helped him, but he could only hope Derek would understand.

There was a saying, wasn’t there? If memory served—which it usually did with him—it was a quote from Emiliano Zapata. “Better to die on my feet than live on my knees.” Stiles felt like that described his current situation quite succinctly. He wasn’t going to let Argent use him as a weapon. He’d rather die.

Stiles started and coughed when he was quite literally drenched in freezing cold water. He jerked slightly, banging his left elbow against the wall behind him and wiping the water out of his eyes. 

He was still exactly where he’d been, leaning back against the far wall, but it looked like quite some time had passed. The shelves were gone, the bed had been stripped so all that remained was the frame, his food had been taken away and Kate seemed to have grown bored and left. 

Gerard and Chris were still outside the cell, the latter holding a bucket, which had likely held the water Stiles had been drenched with. At least it had probably cleaned off his head wound.

“That was rude,” Stiles informed Chris, still wiping water off his face. “I was enjoying some down time.”

“You think you’re so clever,” Gerard said with a small, amused smile. Stiles had the common sense to feel uneasy at the sight of it. “I control how much power is drained, so I control your life. The thing is, you don’t care much about your life, do you, boy?” 

Stiles shrugged expansively. “I had a pretty good run. Got to eat a few things I wanted to. Graduated, made friends, did usual teenage shit. Can’t complain. I mean, I could. Loudly and at length, but I’m still a little pissed about you interrupting my eternal nap so I’m not feeling particularly talkative.” 

He saw Chris’ lips quirk slightly, like he found Stiles amusing, but it was so quick that he might have been mistaken and Chris was just having some kind of cheek spasm.

Either way, Gerard was the one Stiles was looking at, because the man was twirling his phone between his hands, looking remarkably pleased.

“Do you know how I captured you?”

Stiles frowned. “You didn’t. I came willingly.”

“You did,” Gerard agreed, still looking pleased as punch. “You came willingly. But only after I threatened Hale.”

The words made Stiles freeze and he tried not to make his nerves show on his face. He didn’t think he did a good job, because Gerard smirked cruelly and bent closer to the bars.

“Not feeling so smart now, are you?” 

“What did you do?” Stiles asked before he could stop himself. It wasn’t like he hadn’t made it perfectly clear Derek meant everything to him. 

“You know, when you find a person’s weak spot, it’s very easy to apply a little _pressure_.”

“What did you _do_?!” Stiles demanded, jerking to his feet. He stumbled on his way to the bars, vision crackling at the sudden movement after everything he’d been through, as well as the chain linking his ankles together, but he managed to keep his feet. He hit the bars hard with his front, struggling to stay standing, and gripped the metal between his fingers, staring out angrily at Gerard. He could feel his knees weakening and his wrists burning, the magic trying to escape him but having nowhere to go. 

“I only ask for a little bit of compliance,” Gerard informed him, standing right in front of him on the other side of the gate. Stiles wished he had the strength to reach through it and yank Gerard forward into the bars, but it was taking everything he had just to stay standing. “You do something for me, and I do something for you.” 

Stiles grit his teeth as Gerard flipped the phone around. He unlocked it with his thumb and then turned it to face Stiles. He was scrolling through pictures, showing Derek still pinned to the road. As the photos progressed, it showed Derek struggling to free himself. Eventually Jackson was beside him, wrenching the harpoon or whatever out of Derek’s shoulder. Then it showed pictures of them going to find the others, meeting up with them outside a large, abandoned-looking building. Derek was clearly agitated, making large arm gestures and Jackson looked both pissed and terrified. 

Slowly, it showed them going back to town, Derek going back to the Hale house, the pack meeting together. Stiles wondered who was taking the photos, because they had to be good enough to stay off the wolves’ radar. Maybe it was a Supernatural being that could hide from Werewolves. Or maybe it was a really seasoned Hunter who happened to be good at masking his presence.

Either way, the threat was clear. Gerard wasn’t showing him this so he’d know what had happened after he was taken.

He was showing him this to prove just how _easily_ he could take Derek out. 

And based on some of the photos, and how close the person taking them was getting to the pack, it seemed to be pretty fucking close. Close enough to incapacitate Derek.

Close enough to kill him.

“All I want is a little cooperation,” Gerard said, Stiles’ jaw clenching while staring at the last picture of Derek, looking distressed and pacing on the front porch of the Hale house like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “You obey, and he lives.”

Stiles’ gaze snapped up to Gerard’s face, and he could tell by his expression the man knew he’d won. Stiles could try to play it off, try and pretend he didn’t care, but he’d seen how close Derek had been to dying the other day. He’d seen how close he’d come to losing him.

And if he played it cool, pretended he didn’t care, Gerard would kill Derek without a second’s hesitation. He would take him out, and move on to someone else to get what he wanted.

Stiles had never hated Derek so much in his life, because by making him care as much as he did, Stiles didn’t have a choice. He was fine dying himself, but he could _not_ let Derek die. After everything he’d been through, after all he’d done for him, Derek wasn’t allowed to die. Not on his watch.

Not because of him.

“You stay away from Beacon Hills,” Stiles said through clenched teeth. “You stay _away_ from my pack. You do _not_ touch Derek.” 

Gerard waited, smile widening, and the words were like broken glass in Stiles’ mouth when he spoke.

“You agree, and I’ll do anything you want.”

He saw Chris shift his weight out of the corner of his eye, but all his attention was on Gerard, who was smiling like the cat who just caught the canary. He turned off his phone, pushed it back into his pocket, then reached through the bars to lightly pat Stiles on one cheek.

“There’s a good boy.”

Stiles had never hated anyone as much as he hated Derek in this moment. Because he was literally going to do _anything_ to keep him safe.

Fuck Derek Hale and the God damn Camaro he rode in on.

* * *

Hunters were a predictable bunch, in Stiles’ opinion. Always wanting to fight the good fight while pretending they weren’t murderers and, in some cases, rapists. They acted like they were superior to all others, even while relying on the very Supernaturals they hated so much to get their dirty work done. 

Stiles was bound by his word to Gerard. Whatever was asked of him, he did it. He tried not to think much on what he was being asked to do. Gerard never told him to _kill_ anyone, but it was clear that the things Stiles did would inevitably lead to a lot of deaths for a lot of people. 

He had panic attacks every now and then when he’d overhear what his spells had done to help the Hunters eradicate yet another group of ‘filthy beasts.’ Gerard was always there to comfort him through them, holding him close against his side, shushing him softly with his lips at Stiles’ temple, and calling him a good boy.

The words usually made Stiles feel sick. Sometimes he threw up. Sometimes he didn’t. He never managed to puke on Gerard though, so that was a loss.

The cuffs came off whenever he was expected to do something for the Hunters, but Gerard always pre-faced that event by showing him new pictures of Derek. One of them had been taken from two booths down in their regular diner, Peter, Derek, Lydia and Mason hunched together around something, evidently talking strategy. 

The threat was clear, so Stiles obeyed. If he ran, it would take one phone call and his friends would die. So when the cuffs and restrictors came off, he obeyed. Even when he didn’t want to. Even when he’d rather die. Even when he wanted to run, run, _run_. He obeyed.

He always obeyed. 

After a while Gerard stopped putting the chains on his ankles, likely confident in his ability to keep Stiles in line with threats against Derek. The cuffs and restrictors always went back on though, and Stiles felt perpetually exhausted from his constant drain, only being allowed a reprieve when he was using his magic, which itself was a drain. 

He ate the food they gave him. Most of the time it was things he liked. Sometimes it wasn’t, but they seemed to want to keep him relatively happy so they kept track of things he didn’t finish and never gave them to him again. 

A happy slave was a compliant slave, or whatever. Stiles figured they were trying to do what Deucalion had been suggesting. Break him, and then rebuild him. They were trying to break him with kindness, he supposed, though how any of them could even entertain the idea that he was remotely close to happy locked in a cage with magic constantly being sucked out of him, he had no idea. 

He often wondered about the cuffs. Whenever they came off, they disappeared, and he wondered if there was some kind of machine or whatever that pulled the magic out of them before they got slapped back on. After all, he felt like the cuffs couldn’t just indefinitely pull at his magic without repercussions. If they worked with an app—seriously, this day and age was the _worst_ —then they obviously had some kind of technology inside them. The magic might keep them charged, but if someone overcharged a phone, it started to wear away at the battery. 

If there was one thing he’d learned about his time there though, it was that the Argent family did not get along very well. After only two weeks and four outings from his little cell, it was clear there was a divide. 

Nobody disobeyed Gerard, ever, but it was clear that they all tried to get their way by sucking up to him. Kate was by far the worst, constantly insisting that having Derek back in her grasp would cause much more compliance from Stiles. And having Stiles there meant Derek would behave, and they could use them both against each other. 

Chris always vehemently argued against this, insisting that Derek was more trouble than he was worth, and having the two of them close to each other would only encourage an escape attempt. He always reminded Gerard of how Stiles and Derek had escaped Deucalion, and that was back before they’d even _known_ each other. Given the clear level of devotion on both sides, it was too risky. 

Thankfully, Gerard always sided with Chris. He told Kate to find another toy to play with and she sulked and muttered angrily about it, but obeyed when he ordered her to stay out of Beacon Hills. After all, he had a promise to keep to Stiles. If he went back on his word, so would Stiles. 

Allison was an interesting person. Stiles never saw her during the outings, but he often heard about her training. She would come down a lot with his food, and after the first week, Stiles had started actually talking back when she asked him questions. She’d seemed pleased with this, but Stiles still hated her for condoning what was happening to him. He supposed someone who’d grown up like this wouldn’t necessarily see anything wrong with what was happening. 

But then, sometimes she would say things. Little things. And Stiles thought maybe he was misunderstanding her somewhat. 

“I think it’s important that we protect the public,” she’d said once. “Everyone knows how dangerous the world is now, so I think it’s important that we always protect those who can’t protect themselves from anyone who would do them harm.” 

Stiles hadn’t missed the fact that she’d said ‘anyone’ as opposed to ‘any _thing_ ,’ which was the usual word used by the adult Argents. Werewolves and Chimeras and Shifters weren’t _people_ , they were _things_. Beasts, monsters, things that went bump-in-the-night. But Allison didn’t call them things. And she hadn’t specified that she thought Supernatural creatures _specifically_ should be eradicated, but more that anyone who wanted to cause harm to another should be. 

It was a small distinction, and Stiles had thought it was a fluke the first time, but the more they spoke, the more nuggets she dropped. She was fiercely loyal to her family, of that he had no doubt. She practically worshipped the ground her father walked on, and she and Kate were almost like sisters as opposed to aunt and niece. But there were parts of her that peeked out every now and then that suggested she wasn’t _entirely_ sold on what she was being told to believe. 

Stiles knew it wouldn’t happen overnight, but little by little, if they could just get friendlier, he thought perhaps he might be able to turn her to his side and maybe they could get out of there together. He doubted it’d happen any time soon, but one could dream. 

He also learned that Jennifer was forbidden from going anywhere near him. She worked for Gerard, and was paid generously for her services, but whatever deal they’d had back when she’d helped get Derek away from him all those months ago at the loft had clearly been dissolved. Stiles never woke up to someone pulling out hairs or asking for a spit test or, thankfully, a finger. He didn’t have the details, but from what he gathered based on the snipits of conversation he caught, Gerard didn’t trust Jennifer with Stiles. He kept her around because she was useful, but she wasn’t allowed near the Spark. 

After almost two weeks, he finally had the pleasure of having a conversation with Kate. Whenever he was let out to do whatever they asked of him, he was always blinded on his way out of the house, and then left that way until he was safely back in the cage with the cuffs on. Two people were always tasked with bringing him back to the cage, mostly for security, but also to ensure that the person locking up was doing it properly and not getting distracted by Stiles in an attempt to escape.

Not that he would, he had too much to lose. 

He was stumbling blindly down the stairs, Kate gripping his arm tightly, and then shoved into the cell. He put his hands out to catch himself on the wall and felt her manhandling him around. 

“Hands,” she ordered. He obediently held them up and felt the burn of the restrictors being put back in place. Then he winced when the cuffs were snapped on, biting into the sensitive skin of his wrists and re-opening wounds that hadn’t even begun to heal. He felt like he’d have permanent wounds in his wrists if this was how he spent the rest of his life. He wondered what would happen if anything got infected. Would they just change what they put on him?

After all, Harris had had that weird disc that bit into his back. Stiles figured they could just buy different things and alternate them. Actually, he’d appreciate that, considering how raw and painful his wrists always felt. Showering was almost a chore when water got beneath the cuffs. Eating was difficult too, because sometimes his hand couldn’t stop shaking from the pain and weakness overall. 

The only upside to always having the cuffs on was that Stiles was intimately familiar with them. He knew almost everything about them, both inside and out, from a purely observational standpoint. He knew that the magic sucking part of the cuffs didn’t work properly unless they were fully closed and latched, with the spikes pressed inside his skin so that the tips were dipped in blood. 

He knew that the mechanism of the cuffs was designed so that they couldn’t be removed without two hands, ensuring that anyone wearing them wouldn’t be able to take them off easily without another pair of hands helping. 

He knew that they had some kind of technology included given Gerard’s ability to amp up the power whenever he felt like Stiles wasn’t being good enough at what he was being asked to do. 

He also knew they had a limit to how much power they could absorb, and he only knew that because of the first time he’d gotten mad with Gerard two weeks ago when they’d first made their deal. Because after agreeing to Gerard’s terms, being called a good boy, and then being told to eat his dinner, Gerard had ordered someone to take the cuffs off and they’d disappeared for a while before coming back so he could be let out for a shower. 

These were all things Stiles knew, and the more he knew, the better his chances. He couldn’t escape right now, not with the threat against Derek, but he knew it was only a matter of time before someone noticed the picture-taking weirdo. Beacon Hills wasn’t a big place, the pack would notice them eventually. 

Stiles winced when the second cuff was snapped on, Kate catching some skin between the clasp and clearly not caring. His vision came back then, Kate still in front of him, and she pushed him up against the wall, one hand at his throat. 

“Kate,” the guy outside the cage warned. Stiles thought his name was Blake, but couldn’t be sure. All these assholes looked the same to him. 

“Do you realize how much you cost me?” she asked Stiles darkly, tightening her hand around his throat. He just stared back at her without moving, because if she killed him, well, at least he’d be done with this conversation, if nothing else. 

“I’m sorry, is there a shortage of underage, vulnerable Werewolves for you to torture and _rape_ at your convenience?” Stiles shot back. 

The hand tightened further and Kate’s eyes hardened in shards of glass. “Derek Hale is _mine_. He has always belonged to me, and one day, when you’re done pretending you’re ever going to get out of here, and you start acting like the little puppet we all know you’re going to become, I’m going to get him back. And when I do, I’m going to fuck him nice and slow right in front of you, and he’s going to see just how far you’ve fallen when you don’t lift a finger to help him.” 

“You have a lot of confidence for someone who’s too scared to go against what daddy tells her. What’s wrong, didn’t have enough attention as a child? Maybe you shouldn’t have fallen for a _monster_ and you wouldn’t have to worry about daddy not being proud of you.” 

Kate’s hand squeezed tighter, cutting off Stiles’ air circulation. Blake said her name again, slapping one hand against the bars in an attempt to get her attention, but her eyes were locked on Stiles. She bared her teeth in a vicious smile. 

“You think he honestly cares about you? He doesn’t. He hates you, you know. Because of what you are. Because of what he’s forced to do to protect you. I took his voice, because I knew it meant he couldn’t make new connections, and it’s laughable to think you believe the two of you share any kind of connection. He hates you. You’re nothing more than a weapon that he’s forced to keep contained so it doesn’t destroy us all.” 

Stiles didn’t have the breath to respond. One of his hands twitched, almost reaching up to grab at her wrist, but he forced it to remain at his side, even as the edges of his vision started to go black and he literally couldn’t inhale anymore.

Still, he forced words out with what was left in his lungs, feeling spit on his lips from his attempt to get them out. 

“You’re just jealous he loves me more than you.” 

Kate’s expression twisted into something terrible, but before she could do anything, someone was beside her, grabbing her wrist and squeezing hard. 

“Let go. Now.” 

Her gaze snapped to Chris, who was staring back at her angrily. She obediently released Stiles, who inhaled sharply and coughed a few times. Kate wrenched her wrist free of her brother’s grasp, cast one last hateful look at Stiles, then turned to stalk out of the cage. Blake hesitated for a moment before following after her, clearly figuring Chris could handle things on his own. 

“I think I struck a nerve,” Stiles said, loud enough for her to hear, but she didn’t turn and just stomped back up the stairs, slamming the door loudly at the top. It opened a moment later for Blake, who shut it a little more quietly. 

Stiles rubbed at his throat while Chris kept his eyes on the stairs, as if wanting to be sure she was gone. After a few moment, he turned back to Stiles and leaned in much too close for his comfort, lips at his ear.

When he spoke, it was so quiet Stiles almost didn’t hear him, despite the fact that he was _right there_.

“She’s the favourite. Stop antagonizing her. I can only talk my father out of going after Hale so many times.” 

He turned and walked out of the cage, shutting and locking the door behind him before stalking back to the stairs and disappearing up them.

Stiles stared after him, hand still at his throat, completely stunned. 

What? 

* * *

Stiles rubbed at his wrists, staring down unseeingly at them while lights flashed across the inside of the car whenever they passed beneath a streetlamp. He was blind thanks to Kate’s favourite spell, but not so much that the brief flashes of light and shadow weren’t clearly discernible. His wrists were raw and bloody, though the permanent wounds he had due to the spikes of his cuffs seemed to have stopped bleeding, at any rate. 

He still had the restrictor bands on, but Kate only ever took those off when they reached the applicable destination. He hadn’t mentioned to them that he knew how to take them off himself, since he wanted that to be an ace up his sleeve. Then again, he could only do that when the cuffs weren’t on, and they only ever came off when he was let out for a job. 

Every time the cuffs were removed, he felt the temptation to escape rise. He was more powerful than Kate, and definitely more dangerous than all the Hunters in the car with him. The only reason he didn’t was because every time he thought of it, he remembered Derek. He remembered the fact that someone was watching Derek. 

He didn’t know what kind of communication Gerard and his friend had, and he also didn’t know if there was some kind of time limit. Stiles thought about taking Gerard out more often than not, but he didn’t know if that meant a death sentence for Derek. If he took out Gerard and couldn’t contact Derek in time, someone could kill him. Did Gerard have daily check-ins? If he did, how long before the check-in was missed before the person watching Derek would take action? 

There were too many risks, too many things that could go wrong, and Stiles wouldn’t let Derek get hurt because of him. He wasn’t going to be the reason another Hale died, especially not _that_ Hale. He could survive this. He wasn’t suffering too terribly, though his psyche was in shreds over everything he’d been forced to do lately, but still. It was tolerable. He could survive this. 

Stiles tensed when his vision suddenly returned, the car easing to a stop. He glanced out the window, but saw nothing other than miles and miles of field. There was one small house far off in the distance, and he was fairly certain that was where they were headed. 

“Everyone knows their jobs,” Gerard said into a radio. “I’ll get the boy up to speed and we’ll move out.” 

There were affirmatives returned down the line and Stiles glanced over at Gerard when the man shifted in his seat to face him head-on. He offered Stiles a kind smile, like he always did whenever he told Stiles what his horrible part was going to be. 

“We received a request from a very wealthy investor of our cause to apprehend someone in this household. Personal reasons.” 

Whenever Gerard said that, Stiles always immediately thought about Harris. Anyone who wanted a person for ‘personal reasons’ was a collector of rare things. That meant whoever was in the house was a rare thing. 

Stiles felt sick at the thought of letting Gerard capture whoever was in there, because he remembered Harris’ showroom. He remembered the Sand Sprite, in a bikini and painted gold. The Merman, who was trapped in a tank of water. The eight year old Elemental girl, behind a wall of glass and metal. 

He didn’t want to do that to someone else. Have them live in a glass prison, similar to his own situation, except his was less showy and more possessive. 

But Derek... 

“I don’t see any need for me,” Stiles said. “I don’t sense any defences and Kate can handle anything anyone throws at you.” 

“Oh well, you see,” Gerard said, shifting closer so he was almost pressing Stiles up against the side of the door, “he’s got a Warlock father in there. Too afraid to move away from home, you understand. A little sad, isn’t it? Twenty-five and still living with daddy.” 

“Your whole family lives with you,” Stiles shot back, trying to stall. 

“Hunters always live in packs. Like Werewolves, yes?” Gerard was giving him another one of his syrupy-sweet smiles, like he was enjoying jabbing at open wounds. “I’ve been told that your little friend needs his pack right now. Living in the old Hale house with his uncle and sister. Would be so very easy to take out the entire Hale line in one go.” 

Stiles grit his teeth then turned to kick open his door angrily. When he stepped out, Kate was right beside him, grabbing the back of his neck and smiling viciously. She still hadn’t forgiven him for her loss of Derek. If nothing else, Stiles was just glad she’d never get to lay her grubby, rapist hands on him ever again so long as he was there. 

Gerard couldn’t afford to lose his bargaining chip, and the second Derek was on the table, Stiles was going to go fucking nuclear on them. Derek was _not_ to be on the table, _ever_. 

“Come on,” Kate said, pushing him forward, fingers digging into the sensitive skin of his neck. “Let’s not keep daddy Warlock waiting.” 

Her other hand slid down his arm while the group of them headed towards the house through the fields, the cover of darkness making it easier for them to go unnoticed. Stiles felt the burn of the restrictor on his left wrist come off, but Kate didn’t release the one on his right yet. When they were close enough to the house that the light could catch them, they all crouched and Kate undid the restrictor on his other wrist. 

“Showtime,” she whispered in his ear. “Make it black.” 

Stiles grit his teeth and clenched his fists, again thought of disobeying and making a break for it, but Gerard had his phone out in a heartbeat, eyes on Stiles while tapping the item idly against his thigh. It was clearly a threat and Stiles felt like he’d break his teeth with how hard he was clenching them, but eventually turned back to the house. 

Pulling up magic, he knocked all the lights out, the entire house going dark. There was the sound of someone calling out to someone else, and then a flashlight flickered in one of the windows. The Hunters moved forward quickly and expertly. Kate stayed behind with Stiles, keeping track of what was going on inside. 

Stiles noticed Chris cast them one last look out of the corner of his eye before disappearing with the others. 

Kate had her fingers in Stiles’ hair, brushing them lightly through the strands, and looking pleased as punch about what was transpiring inside. When the radio crackled and Stiles was asked for, Kate stood and forced him to his feet by the hair, then shoved him forward. 

So far, there was nothing in the house suggesting the Hunters’ presence had been noticed, but he knew that was the whole point. Kate’s magic was defensive and could incapacitate someone for a time, but what they needed for someone like an all-powerful Warlock was a clear knock-out. 

And unfortunately for the very Witchy Kate, her magic was weak and didn’t offer knocking someone unconscious when they had powerful magic of their own. 

Stiles moved slowly and silently into the house with her. He wanted to make noise, alert the owner that others were there, but every time he blinked he saw Gerard tapping his phone against his thigh and thought better of it. 

He and Kate had barely made it a few steps into the house when there was shouting, a loud crack, and a Hunter screamed before the wall in front of Stiles exploded into nothing, someone flying clear through it. 

“Caleb, run!” 

Stiles’ heart clenched in his chest at the words, but Kate pushed him forward roughly and Stiles stumbled right into the blown out wall. He barely managed to deflect a spell blasted at him, then erected a shield while the Warlock continued to throw spell after spell at him. He occasionally twisted to knock back a Hunter or two and dodge some bullets, but overall, the guy clearly knew that Stiles was the bigger threat since he kept peppering him with offensive magic. 

He could see how terrified the man was. Not for himself, but for his son. Stiles wondered if that was how his own father had looked in his last moments. Defiant but scared. No way of knowing what would happen after he fell. It made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. 

When Stiles noticed one of the Hunters move into the Warlock’s blind spot, he knew that meant the man was going to die, and he wasn’t going to let another person lose their father like he’d lost his just because he was _different_. 

Stiles lowered his shield and deflected the bullet that would’ve hit the Warlock right in the back of the head. The man whipped around, then turned back to Stiles wide-eyed, and Stiles winced before slamming one hand forward and having the Warlock fly back into the wall. He hit it hard, then fell to the ground. 

He groaned, struggling to get back to his feet, and Stiles moved a step forward. He saw Jenna move up right beside the Warlock with her rifle, aimed it at the man’s head, and Stiles’ stomach dropped. 

“No!” He flung one arm out and the rifle jerked upwards, firing off into the wall a few inches to the right of Benson’s head. The man cursed and stumbled to the side, then turned to glare at Stiles. 

Jenna did, too. 

“What the hell?” she demanded angrily. 

“You don’t have to kill him,” Stiles snapped. “Just knock him out or something. I did all the hard stuff, why are you acting like murdering the man is the only way to go.” 

“He’s going to be a problem if we don’t take him out,” Jenna hissed. 

“Do not kill him,” Stiles said darkly, the Warlock still struggling to get his head back on straight. “I mean it.” 

Gerard appeared from somewhere else in the house, looked at the display, then wandered over to the fallen Warlock. Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but Gerard just slammed the butt of his rifle into the man’s head and he fell to the ground, unmoving. 

Letting out a slow breath, Stiles didn’t want to be appreciative, but he kind of was. Gerard moved up in front of him with a kind smile and patted his cheek once. “Well done, my boy. And you’re right, there’s no need to kill those who can be incapacitated.” He turned back to some of the others. “Tie him up. Kate, put restrictors on him so he can’t use magic once he wakes. Everyone else, search the house. The kid’s here somewhere.” 

“I’ll take the Spark outside,” Chris said, grabbing at Stiles’ arm. “He’s done enough potential damage for one night.” 

Gerard waved him away and went to look through the rest of the house with the others. Chris just dragged Stiles outside by the arm, rifle in his other hand. They went out the back door, since it was closer, and Stiles froze at the sight of a man no older than Derek halfway around the house. 

Chris turned to see what Stiles was looking at and fell instantly. Stiles had no idea what the man had done, what he even _was_ , but he had one hand up and looked terrified. Chris was a crumpled heap at Stiles’ feet, having half-fallen off the back porch, halfway down the steps. His rifle was _right there_ , and Stiles was so tempted to grab it, charge back into the house, and take out all the Hunters. 

But he couldn’t. Right now, he had a bigger problem. Because someone had heard Chris fall, and pounding footsteps were coming up behind them. 

“Chris?” And of _course_ it was Kate. Fuck! 

Stiles had no idea what he was about to do, but he sure as fuck hoped whatever it was worked. He threw one hand out towards the man, prayed for him to go somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, and watched in almost slow motion as a portal opened up behind him, the guy flew backwards into it, and the hole closed up just as Kate appeared behind him. 

_Oh God, I really hope I didn’t just send him into some random hell dimension,_ Stiles realized, horrified.

“What did you _do_?!” Kate demanded. Stiles’ wrists burned when she grabbed at him, putting the restrictors back into place, and then shoved him face-first into the wall. “What did you do to Chris?!” 

“What’s going on?” Gerard’s voice demanded. 

“He _attacked_ Chris!” Kate screeched angrily. 

There was a groan from behind them and Stiles felt his stomach drop at the realization that Chris would _know_ something had happened, and he wondered if Derek was about to die.

But then Chris said, “Fuck. Kate, let him go. I missed a fucking step in this God damn darkness. Can we get the lights back on? Christ.” 

“Are you okay?” Gerard asked, not sounding like he particularly cared that much. 

“Fine. Missed a step, like I said. Kate, stop hurting him, we need him.” 

Stiles heard Gerard approach, and he must’ve done something, because Kate released him. Stiles pushed away from the side of the house and turned to glare at her, but Gerard gently took him by the back of the head and pulled him into a hug, crushing Stiles’ face against his shoulder. 

“Sh, there’s a good boy. You’re all right. You did so well tonight, Stiles. Did exactly as I asked. But maybe we should take you out of the field. After all, wouldn’t want you to get hurt, would we? Chris, why don’t you, Kate and Benson head on back home? The rest of us can keep looking for the kid.” 

“Sure,” Chris said, sounding disgruntled. “Come on.” Once Gerard had released Stiles, he grabbed at his arm and pulled him down the stairs. They headed back towards the cars, flashlights bouncing off the terrain around them. Kate was following right behind them and Stiles heard Benson join them a few seconds later. 

As they reached one of the cars and Kate moved to blind him again, Stiles saw a figure in the far distance running away from the house. It was much farther than human legs could’ve possibly gotten in such a short amount of time, and Stiles was relieved to know he _hadn’t_ sent the man into some random hell dimension. 

Before he lost his sight, he noticed Chris looking at the same thing as him, but the man just glanced back at Stiles and said nothing before the world went black around him. 

Stiles didn’t understand Chris Argent at all, but he was starting to suspect the man may not be entirely into the family business like his sister was. 

* * *

Stiles felt his stomach clench before he even heard the voice, because he knew where he was. His bare feet were standing in water that didn’t seem to be wetting them. It was dark and gloomy and no matter where he looked, he saw nothing around him. The air smelled rank and foul, like decay and terror. 

Like death. 

It hadn’t smelled like that the last time. 

He wondered if that was what he smelled like. If he was slowly dying from the cuffs, and it was translating into this place. Into his very core, where only the worst of him lived. 

_“He comes back to us,”_ the voice that was his but also not said from somewhere behind him. _“He comes back for our wolf. Because they hurt him. Because they wish to kill him. Or cage him. He would look so very good in our cage, wouldn’t he? Our wolf. Oh, but he **is** ours. Not hers. Not **hers**.”_

Stiles clenched his hands into fists and tried to centre himself, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. It would pass. He wasn’t stuck here, he could leave whenever he wanted. He was just a little distressed from the job today. 

He hadn’t seen the swing-set in the side yard until after he’d broken the wards protecting the house. There was a child in the house, and he’d allowed Gerard entry. He was promised nobody had died, that the ones inside had joined Gerard’s cause, but Stiles couldn’t know that. He was always taken away before any of the raids started when he wasn’t needed inside. 

It could be a lie. Maybe they’d killed them all. 

Even the child. 

“This place smells like shit,” Stiles informed Void, taking a few steps in a random direction. “Don’t you ever clean up?” 

_“He jokes, the Spark. He jokes like he isn’t dying.”_ Stiles came to a stop when Void appeared in front of him, just as grotesque and unsettling as the first time he’d seen him. _“We are dying, Spark. They are pulling and pulling and when nothing is left, who will protect our wolf then? Let us in. Let us in, and we can escape. We can leave this place, and destroy the ones who thought to chain us.”_ Void raised both hands in front of himself in the same manner Stiles usually did when he offered them up for the cuffs to be replaced.

He recoiled when he saw Void’s wrists were bruised and bloody, black ooze slowly trailing down pale arms, staining the skin. Stiles immediately looked down at his own wrists, but they were smooth and whole. He didn’t know if that was just because this was his mind, or if it was because Void was purposefully trying to fuck with him. 

_“Let us in, Spark. Don’t you want to escape this place?”_ Void’s arms dropped and he closed the distance quickly, getting right in Stiles’ face. _“We can make that happen. We can get out. We have the power to escape, Spark. Let us in, and we can leave. We can go home. Go back to our wolf. He needs us. He **wants** us. Let us in, and we can escape.”_

Stiles hated how tempting it was. He _hated_ that Void knew exactly what to say to make him consider it, even for a second. It was the most terrifying second of his life, because—what if? 

What if he let Void take over? What if he gave in, let him do as he pleased, got them out? Stiles knew it was dangerous, knew that a Void was nothing like a Spark, but he’d come back once, hadn’t he? He’d come back from that with Derek’s help. Was it really so impossible to think that he could come back again? As many times as he had to? 

Was it impossible to imagine that Void could get him out, and then Derek could bring him back? Two birds, one stone. Freedom and Derek. He didn’t have to stay Void. He could push it back, he could be a Spark again. Was there a rule that said once he went Void he could never go back to being a Spark? It might be similar to a Darach but it wasn’t the _same_. Darachs had to kill people, perform a sacrificial ritual. It was one-way. 

Voids didn’t do that. Void was literally Stiles just letting that side of him take over. Let himself be at full power without even trying. Sure, a few people might die, but only bad people. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t murdered people already. Every single person who’d tried to protect him, and every single person he’d failed to protect. Every spell he’d cast since coming to the Argents’, every home he allowed them entry to.

Stiles was already a murderer, would it be so bad to let Void take over, kill the Argents, and then go home to Derek? 

But then... it was Derek that made that one second pass without action. Because he remembered the look on his face. He remembered how scared he’d been, how terrified he’d looked. He remembered Noshiko backing away, Parrish and Deaton sharing a look, everyone walking on eggshells around him after it had happened. 

He remembered Derek thinking he’d lost Stiles to Void. And there was nothing more painful than thinking about putting that look on his face again. 

“I don’t need your help,” Stiles said, turning his back on Void and beginning to walk away from him. 

_“He thinks that now, the Spark, but what happens the next time a child dies by his hand?”_

Stiles didn’t stop walking, but he clenched his jaw and kept his chin up. Gerard had said he hadn’t killed them. Stiles knew he was a bad man, but so far he hadn’t proven himself a liar. He knew it was naive of him, but he had to believe Gerard wasn’t going to jeopardize Stiles’ cooperation. After all, if he lied once, it meant he would lie again, and then Stiles wouldn’t believe him when he promised no harm would come to Derek. 

Did Stiles want out? Of fucking _course_ he did! So badly! 

But... how desperate was he? 

Stiles glanced over his shoulder, Void’s loud laughter echoing around him, even as he didn’t move any closer to his retreating form. 

Not that desperate. 

Not yet. 

Stiles kept walking until he woke up. 

* * *

“So how come it’s only Kate?” Stiles asked, moving corn kernels around on his plate. He hated corn, why did people keep insisting on giving him corn? Seriously, were carrots out of season or something? He’d have to remind them, _again_ , that he did _not_ like corn. This was like a punishment, which wasn’t fair, given he’d been really good lately. 

Almost _too_ good, if he was honest. He supposed four months with murderers and relative solitude made even the smallest amount of conversation feel good. He’d almost thrown up when he’d felt, just for the tiniest of moments, a little proud of how pleased Gerard had been with his work.

He tried to convince himself it was because he’d only been asked to heal a wounded Hunter and not go out and murder a bunch of people, but still. He didn’t like how good the praise had felt, because it worried him. He didn’t want to lose himself in this place. 

He didn’t want Kate’s words to be true. 

Stockholm syndrome had never made sense to him until he’d been trapped in this place for weeks on end. It was hard to keep fighting back when survival depended on the person on the other side of the door. Then again, he knew as long as he kept his mind focussed on Derek, he was never going to lose sight of why he was doing any of this. 

Still, the brief moment of pride at the, “Good boy,” he’d gotten had made him have a panic attack. Which had been awful, because that had just made Gerard wrap him up tightly in a hug, lips at his temple and shushing him gently while insisting he was doing so well, he was such a good boy, he was being _so good_ to them. 

Stiles forced the thought away viciously so he didn’t throw his dinner back up. He didn’t want Allison to have to clean that up. Blake, maybe. Kate, definitely. But not Allison. 

“What do you mean?” Allison asked, leaning back against one of the wooden posts in the room and watching him play with his food. 

They had a decent relationship, he and Allison. She was nice to him, and she always made sure to bring him extra sweets when she was on food duty. They had good conversations now, as long as they stayed away from the dangerous topics. Like the family business. 

And, oh yeah, the fact that Stiles was a fucking prisoner in their basement. 

“The whole magic thing. How come it’s only Kate who ended up being a Witch?” 

Allison shrugged her shoulders, watching him while he continued to move his food around. “I’ve never met my grandmother, but apparently she had some Witch in her. Not much, but enough that her and grandpa together made Kate a Witch. The line’s pretty thin in our family though, which is why she isn’t particularly powerful.” 

“Powerful enough to take away Derek’s voice,” Stiles countered. 

Allison pressed her lips together, knowing Derek was one of the dangerous topics for them. 

“Kate didn’t even know she could do magic until she was almost twenty. She had to train for four years before she was even any good at it.” 

Stiles made a face, dropping his fork and pushing his plate away. If she was twenty when she got her magic, and twenty-four by the time she’d mastered it, that meant she’d been twenty-four at the youngest when she’d taken Derek at age sixteen. 

She really _was_ a fucking disgusting child rapist. Stiles couldn’t believe Gerard had condoned it, but he supposed it wasn’t that he condoned what she was doing. It was more that he was trying to break Derek so that he would lead them to the Spark.

Stiles honestly had to applaud his fortitude. It’d only been four months for him, and already he felt like he’d do anything to just spend one entire day outside. Derek had lasted in this hell-hole for at minimum two years. He wished he was more like Derek. 

Fuck he missed Derek. So much. His chest ached every time he thought about him, and he felt like sometimes he rebelled and acted like a little shit just so that Gerard would show him pictures as a threat. Because he needed to see him. Derek was the only reason he was still sane, that he was still surviving in this place. 

Much as he hated everything about what he was forced into doing, and much as he hated Derek for being the reason he was doing it, he needed him so much he felt like he couldn’t breathe sometimes. 

He’d always felt so safe with Derek. Cared for and loved and safe. Derek was his best friend, and Stiles would literally do anything for him. Leaving him behind like he did had almost destroyed him, and knowing how much Derek was suffering at having lost him was _killing_ him. 

But Derek was alive, and he was safe, and the Argents would stay away from him so long as Stiles obeyed. 

He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out, though. He saw Void more and more often as the days passed, and each visit got more tempting than the last. Stiles worried that one day he’d fall asleep a Spark, and then never wake up, because Void would be the one waking up. 

Stiles glanced over at Allison when she scoffed and saw that she was looking at her phone. She rolled her eyes before putting it back, making a face at Stiles. “Being the youngest person in the house really sucks sometimes.” 

“You’re saying that _to_ the youngest person in the house,” he reminded her. Allison was only three months older than him, but still. 

Stiles was sad he’d missed Derek’s birthday this year. He wondered if the rest of the pack had done something for him. He hoped they had. He hoped they’d gotten him a pie, at least. He doubted Derek would want to celebrate, which hurt Stiles to think about, but as long as he had pie and pack, it was all Stiles could hope for. 

“Why,” Stiles said to distract himself from Derek’s missed birthday, “pray tell, does being the youngest suck? Barring the obvious, anyway.” He motioned his cell, kind of pleased at the unintentional pun. 

Allison didn’t comment on it and just crossed her arms while leaning back against the pillar again. 

“The adults are having all these pow-wows lately. Something big happened, but they haven’t told me what it is. All I know is that grandpa’s worried about it, says it’s going to mess up his plans. All I ever hear these days is ‘Satomi this, and Satomi that.’ I don’t even know who that _is_.” 

Stiles’ heart did something extremely weird in his chest to the point where he worried it’d ripped a few blood vessels. 

Satomi. As in, _his_ Satomi? As in, one of the most powerful Witches in the country? 

Allison was still bitching about how nobody ever told her anything, and how it irked her being left in the dark, but Stiles was only half-listening in case she said something important. The rest of his brain was going a mile a minute. 

The words being used suggested Satomi being involved was a bad thing. While it was possible she was next on their list of places to hit, that wasn’t what it sounded like according to Allison. It sounded more like she was causing problems in a way that was highly distressing to Gerard.

And the only reason Gerard would be distressed about Satomi causing problems, was if it meant he couldn’t control Stiles anymore. Which meant maybe Satomi was in Beacon Hills right now. Maybe Peter had called her, and Satomi had come to help, and Derek was safe.

Maybe Derek was _safe_.

And if Derek was safe... then why was Stiles sticking around? If Derek’s life wasn’t being threatened... 

Stiles’ heart started beating faster in his chest at the thought, and he could feel his wrists burning, but he didn’t care. If Derek’s life wasn’t at risk, Stiles could get out of here. He could escape, go home, and he could re-build the barrier with Satomi’s help. They could keep dangers out, he could use every spell in his repertoire to ensure nobody came for him and his ever again. 

He could _leave_! If only he knew Derek was safe, he could get the fuck out of here! 

“Stiles?” 

He forced his gaze to Allison, who was frowning at him in confusion. 

“What?” he forced out, having completely lost track of what she’d been saying. 

“Are you okay? You’re breathing pretty heavy over there and you look a little... I don’t know. Glowy?” 

It took everything Stiles had not to look down at his hands, but he just forced himself to shrug one shoulder and raked one hand through his hair, going for nonchalance and not entirely sure he’d succeeded. Allison didn’t call him on it though, she just eyed him for a few seconds, then nodded towards his tray. 

“You done with that?” 

“Mm hm, yup.” He grabbed the cookie off the corner before pushing it back under the gap beneath the cage door. Allison bent down to pick it up, offering Stiles a small smile. 

“Chin up, okay? Things will be different soon, I promise.” 

Stiles saluted her with the cookie and she smiled, waved one hand while balancing the tray on the other, and headed up the stairs. When the door at the top shut, Stiles glanced down at his free hand, which he’d clenched into a fist. When he opened it just a smidge, he could see light on his palm.

There was no pain. And while the light wasn’t particularly bright, it was there, which meant the cuffs were either full and short-circuiting, or he was exerting too much magic in his happiness for it to contain. 

He clenched his hand into a fist once more, hoping no one noticed the restrictors were gone when they took the cuffs off next. If he could actually destroy them beneath the cuffs, that meant he could get out of here. His magic was muted, but after four months of the cuffs, he was kind of getting used to the feel of them. The constant drain was his new baseline, which nobody had thought of, clearly. 

Because as soon as he was comfortable with how much magic got sucked out of him, it meant he could counteract it more easily. 

Stiles tried not to smile too widely while thinking up his plan of escape. He just had to keep forcing Gerard to show him pictures. Eventually, he’d run out. And when he ran out, it meant his guy wasn’t there anymore. It meant he was dead or had been expelled.

It meant Derek was safe.

And it meant Stiles could get out of there. 

He couldn’t quite keep the grin off his face when he brought the cookie to his mouth and ate the whole thing in one huge bite.

Allison was right. Things were certainly going to be different soon. 

* * *

Stiles could barely get his eyes open when he heard the loud footsteps and shouting voices coming down the stairs. He wanted to just die, right here and now. He was so tired of this. He didn’t want to do this anymore. 

This wasn’t what he was supposed to be. He was supposed to be able to make his own decisions. He didn’t want to kill people anymore. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t the one pulling the trigger, if he was putting the gun into a murderer’s hand, he was the one killing the person the bullet hit. 

“He’s been like that since the job ended,” a voice said from much too close. Stiles heard the squeal of a gate open and then the bed dipped when someone sat down beside him. A warm hand was on his forehead and he almost whined. 

It felt like Derek, but it wasn’t. And he hated that it wasn’t. But he hated more that it _felt_ like him. He wanted it to be Derek so badly. 

Stiles groaned when he felt someone pulling him up into a seated position, and then hands were on his cheeks, slapping them just this side of too painful. 

“Come on, boy. Wake up. Talk to me.” 

Stiles forced his eyes open, but his vision was swimming and his stomach rolled over. He felt like he was going to vomit. 

“That’s it. There’s a good boy.” Gerard’s face swam into view, but he looked unhappy. Like something was wrong and he was pissed about things not going according to plan. “There’s a good boy,” he said again. “Not feeling so well, are you?” 

Stiles started to shake his head, but that was a mistake. His stomach rolled over and he bent over the side of the bed and threw up. Sick hit the floor with a disgusting, squelching sound. It splattered onto Gerard’s shoes, but he didn’t seem to care. Like Stiles’ well-being mattered to him more than the clearly expensive shoes he had on. 

“That last job was a bit much for you, wasn’t it?” Gerard asked while Stiles coughed and dry-heaved over the side of the bed. He was rubbing one hand across Stiles’ back, along his shoulder blades, trying for soothing. “That was asking a lot from you, wasn’t it? But you did so well. I’m so proud of you. Even though it was too much, you still did it for me, just like I asked. You’re such a good boy, Stiles.” 

He felt his gorge rise again and would’ve thrown up more than just bile if he had anything left in his stomach. He _hated_ how good the praise felt. Hated how proud it made him that Gerard was pleased that he’d pushed through his exhaustion and magic deficiency to do as he’d asked. 

He tried to convince himself he’d only done it because of what it had been, but he honestly didn’t know. It had been saving lives this time instead of destroying them. Stiles had so badly wanted to do something good, after the months of doing only bad. 

Once he’d finished the spell, he’d felt worse than he ever had before. Worse even than the one time he’d gone Void. He’d barely made it back to his cell, and having the cuffs forced back on... well, it wasn’t hard to imagine why he was slowly dying right now. 

Gerard was shushing him gently while continuing to rub his back, then he snapped at someone to get some water. When it was clear Stiles was done throwing up, Gerard pulled him upright again and shifted him close so that Stiles’ forehead was resting against the old man’s shoulder. He wrapped one arm around him, holding him close and rubbing at whatever part of him his hand could reach in a soothing manner. 

“That’s it, you’re okay. Just a little too much. We’ll know better next time, won’t we?” Stiles felt him shifting, and noticed him pull his phone out of his pocket out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know what he was doing with it until a moment later and he let out a soft sound when he felt the cuffs stop draining his magic. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to think Gerard had turned them off entirely, but he’d lowered them so much that Stiles actually felt like he could do basic spells if he had the energy to move. Gerard put his phone away, and brought his other hand over to grip Stiles’ arm tightly. 

“We’ll get you squared away in no time. How about a bath? You’re burning up, a nice cold bath sounds good, doesn’t it? And some soup. We need to get something back into your stomach. When you’re feeling up to it, we have some cake, too. Sugar always makes you feel better, right? I’ll take care of you, Stiles. I’m always going to take care of you.” 

The thing that sucked the most right now was that Stiles wished he was faking this. He so badly wished he was faking being this weak and sick, because he could get the jump on Gerard and escape right now. Except he couldn’t, because he _wasn’t_ faking it, and he literally felt like he was going to die. 

Which wouldn’t be a bad thing, but Derek would be upset. And Stiles still didn’t know that he was safe yet. 

He’d gotten a few pictures out of Gerard recently, but less than usual. Stiles didn’t know if that was because Gerard didn’t have any, or his guy on the other side was taking less of them. After all, Stiles had been compliant for months now. Half the time, when he rebelled, Gerard didn’t even use Derek as a threat anymore. He just scolded him, reminded him of his promise, and asked him if he wanted to see his friends hurt. It was usually enough to get Stiles moving, but he didn’t know if that was because he was too used to knowing Gerard was true to his word and _would_ hurt them if he pushed too far, or if it was because Gerard’s ammunition had run out and he was bluffing his way through this entire thing. 

Stiles ended up passing out against Gerard, something that disgusted him when he woke up and found out about it, but he was lying in his boxers in a tub with the water running and Chris standing guard at the door, looking unhappy. 

He never knew what to make of Chris, if he was honest. The guy seemed to genuinely care about him, but he always just looked mad whenever they were together. Stiles didn’t know if he cared about him because he was a weapon, or if it was because Chris Argent was a parent and seeing someone young enough to be his kid suffer like this left a bad taste in his mouth.

Either way, Stiles was just glad Chris seemed interested in keeping Derek away from this place, even if that interest was entirely self-serving. He didn’t care, it was a favour nonetheless. 

“How are you feeling?” Chris asked. 

“Like shit, thanks for asking.” Stiles winced and shifted in the still-filling tub, trying to sit up a bit more and moving one hand under the running faucet. The water was cold, but not arctic. He splashed some of it on his face, trying to get himself back under control. 

“Here.” 

He turned to look at Chris, and saw the man holding out a bottle of Advil. He almost wanted to give him an unimpressed look, but lacked the energy. He was suffering from magic deficiency, not a fucking migraine. He didn’t think Advil was going to help very much.

Still, he took the bottle anyway and tipped two pills out, swallowing them dry. He coughed once, mouth tasting like garbage, and held the bottle back out. Chris took it and tucked it away somewhere on his person. 

“Where’s _daddy_?” Stiles sneered, because if he didn’t make his contempt known for Gerard after collapsing into him, people were going to think he’d gone soft. 

“Upstairs with Jennifer,” Chris said easily. “She’s making you something to help with the magic deficiency.” 

“Oh goody,” Stiles said sarcastically, turning the water off when it was high enough and lying back down. The cold water felt good against his skin, and he wondered if the magic he used made the deficiency differ. 

The last time, he’d felt tired and cold and weak. This time, he still felt tired, but he wasn’t cold, and he ached all over. Maybe it was the magic in conjunction with the cuffs, who knew?

So much for his baseline, he’d been doing really well burning away the restrictors lately, but maybe using that magic while still wearing something that sucked the life out of him was a bad idea. But how else was he supposed to be ready to escape at a moment’s notice? 

“Jeff’s dead, by the way.” 

Stiles opened his eyes, not even aware he’d closed them, and shifted his gaze to Chris, confused. “Who’s Jeff?” He didn’t recognize the name at all. He knew everyone who lived in the house, and everyone who ran in the Argents’ inner circle. Jeff was a name he’d never heard before. 

“He’s a Supernatural my father employed years ago. Very useful, and easy to buy. He likes the easiest thing to provide, you see.” 

“Money?” Stiles guessed. 

Chris inclined his head once, tilting his head while shifting his weight, arms still crossed. It looked like he was listening for something, like he wanted to be sure they were alone before continuing. 

Stiles already knew there wasn’t a camera in the bathroom. He’d checked. The only person allowed to see him naked was Derek, not these fucknuts. And even with Derek, it had mostly been because the paranoid asshole wouldn’t let him out of his sight. 

Fuck, he missed Derek. So much. 

“Jeff was a Chameleon,” Chris said, forcing Stiles back to the conversation at hand. 

“Good for him?” Stiles asked, bringing his hands up and cupping water in them so he could splash his face once more, and then the back of his neck. It was doing wonders for how he was feeling, though he suspected the low buzz of the cuffs not sucking _quite_ so much out of him was probably helping more.

Cake would likely have him right back at full health. Well, not exactly, but close enough, he supposed. After all, this was magic deficiency, but also not. That was probably why the symptoms were so different. It wasn’t about him _using_ the magic, but it being forced out of him. 

“Do you know anything about Chameleons?” Chris asked, leaning back against the door with his arms still crossed. 

“According to the internet, it’s a small, slow-moving lizard with a prehensile tail, a long extendible tongue, protruding eyes that rotate independently of one another and the ability to change colour,” Stiles recited easily. 

He didn’t know _why_ he’d ever looked up a chameleon before, but he knew he had or his brain wouldn’t have been able to pull up the information. He didn’t know that was a Supernatural thing too though, it seemed kind of weird to have a person—

Stiles froze, eyes snapping back up to Chris. It looked like the man was waiting for him to put it together, and his expression clearly showed that he had. Chris nodded ever so slightly, as if confirming what Stiles was thinking. 

He knew nothing about Supernatural Chameleons. Hadn’t even known it was a thing until this exact moment. But then... the whole point of Chameleons was blending into their surroundings. Being invisible, so to speak, except not the same as when Stiles went invisible. And if a Supernatural Chameleon creature could hide himself from wolves in a visual sense, why wouldn’t they be able to say, mask their scents? Hide their entire being? Be virtually undetectable to any and all Supernaturals who relied on sight and smell and hearing? 

Jesus fucking Christ, had Chris Argent just told him that the man threatening Derek’s life was fucking _dead_?! 

“Why did you tell me that?” Stiles asked slowly, staring at Chris like he’d never seen him before.

“Tell you what?” Chris asked, staring Stiles down. 

Neither of them said anything further until Gerard came back with two others. Chris took his leave, but Stiles felt like a lot had just happened in a very, _very_ short space of time. 

Chris Argent knew he wanted out. And he’d just given him his ticket. 

* * *

“I don’t think there’s any _reasoning_ with savages like that, Chris,” Kate was saying while very roughly pulling Stiles down the stairs. He was fucking blind, she could be a little more compassionate right now, but he supposed bitch didn’t give two shits about compassion, let alone his comfort. “Easier to wipe them all out.” 

“Wiping them out will start a war with the Fae,” her brother argued, sounding annoyed, like this wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument. “We don’t want to piss off the Fae. We don’t want another war, like in 1618. Humanity as a whole was almost eradicated.” 

“That was then,” Kate insisted, shoving Stiles hard enough that he knew he had to be in his cage by now. “Things have changed. They’re a dying breed.” 

Stiles’ vision came back abruptly and he turned to the cell door where he could see Kate and Chris standing, facing one another while they continued to argue. Allison was with them, but she looked like she was only there because it was her turn to get him back in his cell. Kate and Chris had been arguing about the Fae the entire ride home, Allison only joining them at the top of the stairs. 

Realistically, the rule was only two of them had to be there when he got chained back up, but he supposed neither Chris nor Kate wanted to call a temporary truce. 

“Hiding is hardly the same as dying,” Chris argued, crossing his arms and staring his sister down. “We have to be very careful not to anger them. They’re very valuable to us.” 

“Their resources are lacking lately. Haven’t you noticed? Besides, we have _him_.” She waved absently at Stiles. “Nothing is more powerful than a Spark. Except maybe a Void.” 

“Shut your mouth,” Chris snapped, glancing at Stiles nervously, like he didn’t want to give him any ideas. 

“Aunt Kate, can we—” Allison motioned Stiles. “Please? I have an exam tomorrow and I’m still not happy about the amount of studying I’ve done.” 

Stiles winced at the reminder of exams, because he knew that meant they were in December now. He’d been hoping to be out of here by Christmas, but evidently Gerard had sensed a shift in him the past little while. 

He’d been very, _very_ good lately. Like, exceptionally good. He’d done everything he’d been asked without complaint, had followed all instructions, and was walking easily from the basement to the car while chatting amiably with the people around him. He didn’t shy away from Gerard’s hugs or various proud touches, he made sure to look visibly pleased when he was praised, and he didn’t throw up anymore when bad things happened.

The latter was honestly the hardest, but whenever the cuffs came off, the first spell he did was the one that used the least amount of magic and allowed him to cast an anti-nausea spell. He kept hoping his good behaviour would have them all thinking he was starting to come around—after all, five months was an exceptionally long time—but Gerard didn’t seem convinced. The asshole seemed to suspect something was up, and he didn’t let Stiles out as often as he used to, which was frustrating because Stiles literally had the smallest window ever for escaping.

And that window was getting smaller by the day given they weren’t letting him outside as much anymore. He never managed to ramp up enough magic to escape, because they were making him do little things lately and then immediately tucking him away again. Not to mention Gerard was keeping an annoyingly close eye on him while Kate seemed to stick close more than not. 

Gerard also seemed really involved in touching him. Not in a bad way—well, all Gerard touches were bad in Stiles’ opinion, but not like Kate touching Derek bad—more in a fatherly way. He always wrapped his arm around Stiles and pulled him into his side. He rubbed his back, he ruffled his hair, he whispered, “Good boy” against Stiles’ hairline while holding him gently. It was creepy and gross, but Stiles tolerated it because he wanted everyone to let their guard down.

It wasn’t working, and it was _annoying_. 

“I’m just saying,” Kate continued while walking into the cell, Stiles holding his hands up so she could put the restrictors back on, not that it did any good anymore since Stiles had long ago learned to burn them off, “the Fae need to be taught a lesson. They’re not top of the food chain anymore.” 

“Neither are we, or haven’t you noticed?” Chris asked dryly. 

Kate turned to him with a scoff, moving back out of the cell while Allison headed into it with the cuffs. Chris had shifted so he was standing right in front of the cell door, Kate stopping in front of him with her back to the Stiles. Allison walked up to Stiles and he waited while she snapped one of the cuffs in place.

Before putting the second one on, she paused. Stiles frowned, not sure he understood, but then Allison tilted her head slightly, eyes shifted to the side like she was trying to subtly look over her shoulder. After a moment, she put the second cuff on, but it... felt loose. The spikes didn’t bite into Stiles’ forever-open wounds, and it didn’t click shut.

Allison hadn’t put the second cuff on properly. 

His eyes shot up to her face, and she was staring back at him. She squeezed his wrist tightly, then took a step back and turned. 

“Can you two finish this argument upstairs? I _really_ need to study,” Allison insisted, motioning for the two adults to shoo with both hands.

“I don’t know why you’re so worried,” Chris argued while moving aside so Kate and his daughter could exit the cell. “You’ve worked hard this semester. You’ll get at _least_ an eighty-four.” 

Allison scoffed. “With my luck, more like a forty-six. _And_ I have archery practice tomorrow with Santana. She is _not_ a forgiving coach. If I miss even one shot, I’m gonna hear about it.” 

“You’re not gonna miss a shot,” Chris insisted, motioning for Kate to move out of the way and locking the cell door. His eyes shifted briefly to Stiles, who was still just standing there with his hands out for the cuffs. He offered him the tiniest of nods, then turned and continued speaking, wrapping one arm around his daughter’s shoulders while following after Kate towards the stairs. “You’re the best archer on the team.” 

“She better be, otherwise she can’t call herself an Argent,” Kate said, moving up the stairs. 

Stiles waited until all three were out of sight and the door shut, and then slowly sat down on the bed. He knew there was still the camera to contend with, so he had to stop being weird, but he was kind of in shock. 

All this time, everything that had happened, all the little conversations, and the pointed looks, and the hints.

Chris and Allison were Argents. But they weren’t like the _other_ Argents. 

Chris had been trying to save Derek on the road that night. When Stiles had found them, he’d been adamant they not bother with Derek, he’d been trying to stop them from taking him. And every time Derek had come up afterwards, he was the one who always insisted they leave the wolf be. To just forget about him. 

He’d looked amused every time Stiles gave his father lip. He never smiled, but his lips always twitched. And his eyes looked a little brighter. Like he was glad someone was standing up to his father. 

There was also that guy, Caleb. The one they’d gone to get in that farmhouse. Chris had seen him running away, same as Stiles. But he hadn’t said anything. He’d just climbed into the car to go home like he hadn’t noticed. 

And Jeff.

He’d told Stiles about Jeff. He hadn’t told him everything, but he’d implied enough for Stiles to put it together. He’d known Stiles would be _smart_ enough to put it together. And even now, he and Kate had been standing beside each other, able to see Stiles out of the corners of their eyes. But he’d _moved_. He’d shifted positions so that he was standing right in front of the cell, so that Kate’s back would be to him. So that Kate wouldn’t see when Allison put the cuffs on. 

Allison. Who’d been the first to insist that she wanted to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Who’d promised that things would be different. Who’d _warned_ him when his hands had been glowing without specifically _saying_ his hands were glowing. 

Who’d told him about Satomi. Who’d told him about the camera. Who always brought him extra sugar. 

Who hadn’t put his cuff on properly. 

Chris and Allison had spent the past five months trying to help him get _out_ , in their own way. Allison had told him about Satomi so he’d know he needed to start planning, because she was going to help Derek. Chris had told him about Jeff, so that Stiles would be ready to run at a moment’s notice.

And tonight, it was _Chris_ who’d started the Fae debate in the car. It was _Chris_ who’d followed Allison and Kate downstairs when he was never on lock-up duty. 

It was _Chris_ who’d kept Kate’s attention so his daughter could mess up putting the cuffs on properly. 

Chris did not believe what his father was doing was right, and he had made sure his own daughter knew it. 

They were putting their own lives at risk for this, and Stiles severely hoped they had an escape plan. Because he doubted Gerard would be very happy if he found out about their hands in this. 

A part of him wanted to leave right now. Like, oh my fucking God this very fucking _second_! But it was only a little after six. He hadn’t even had dinner yet, there was loud laughter and noise above him, and someone on the camera. 

No, now wasn’t a good time. He needed to be smart. He needed to bide his time, wait until it was late in the night. Make like he was going to bed, when the person on the other end of the camera would let their guard down, assume he was asleep and read some porn or something. He was sure whoever was watching him didn’t do it every second of the day, which meant as soon as Stiles went to bed, they’d get distracted with something else. 

Stiles forced himself to stand up and go to the bookshelf. It was agony having to act normal, pretend everything was exactly the same, pick out a book he had no intention of reading, but he had to. He didn’t have the strength to wage an all-out war against the people upstairs right now, and even if he could summon enough magic with the one cuff loose, he still had Kate to contend with. 

She may not have been particularly powerful, but she’d incapacitated him once, and she could blind him without effort after having been doing it to him for so long. If he wasn’t at full power, he was going to lose, and he was _not_ willing to risk that. Not when he was so fucking close. 

He sat on his bed and pretended to read, not even seeing any of the words, but forcing himself to turn the page every few minutes to not draw attention. In his head, he was planning, trying to figure out the best course of action.

He had no idea where he was. He’d never known where he was. He was always blind leaving and coming back, and Chris and Allison had never mentioned it, likely not really thinking about how important that piece of information might be. 

But that didn’t matter. As long as he got the second cuff off before anyone found out he was gone, it meant Gerard couldn’t incapacitate him by upping the power. Stiles’ first order of business the second he got out was to get the cuff off. He was doing a lot better about them after months of exposure, but they were almost always at the same level. If Gerard suddenly cranked the cuffs up to maximum power, he had no idea what that would do to him. 

When he’d first been captured, he’d passed out, but he didn’t even know how high the power had gone. He couldn’t risk getting incapacitated, he didn’t know the range of the cuffs, so he just had to run and then get it off. It would be borderline impossible, considering its design requiring two hands to remove it, but Stiles was stubborn, and desperate. He’d figure it out. 

But that also made him think about _how_ to escape. He could blow a hole through the wall, but that would be an announcement. No, best he just try and sneak out. Once he pretended to sleep for a few hours, he could hopefully sneak to the cell door without the person watching him noticing. If he made his bed up in a way where it looked like someone was there, and he was quick at unlocking the cell, he could be out of the camera’s range in seconds. 

Provided he could get the cell _open_ , considering it was also magic. Stiles hadn’t really been working on the cell door much, and now he regretted it. He had to know what kind of magic it was to know what he could use to counteract it. 

When dinner was brought down, Stiles thanked Jenna when she slid it under the gap and then went to grab it. Sometimes the Hunters stayed and made conversation with him, but a lot of them didn’t. Jenna was one of the ones who did, which was _perfect_ for Stiles, because it gave him a reason to sit closer to the bars so he could try and determine what kind of magic it was without being weird about it. 

He had to be careful about the loose cuff, but he sat sideways so that it was facing the back wall and leaned against the bars while he ate his tacos, Jenna bitching at him about her asshole boyfriend who just _couldn’t commit_. 

If nothing else, Stiles never got tired of hearing how miserable all the Hunters seemed to be. He always nodded sympathetically and tried to give not-great advice, but if they suspected he was glad to hear they were suffering, they never showed any indication of it. 

She gave him an extra cookie for listening to her whine, which he happily ate and added to his slow build-up of magic. It would take months, if not _years_ , to get his magic back up where he needed it to be after five months of these cuffs, but then again... he also wondered if it might not.

When Harris had shot him with the same technology, it had incapacitated him only as long as the disc had been on him, then his magic had slowly come back. Sure, his magic didn’t immediately snap back when the cuffs came off, but he also hadn’t had them off for more than a few minutes every now and then. What if his magic _did_ snap back easily provided he was just given enough time to actually _let_ it? 

He supposed he’d find out tonight. 

It was hard going about his evening as normal. Every two seconds he wanted to start getting ready for bed, but if he did it too early, they’d know something was up. Stiles usually listened to the sounds coming from upstairs to determine the time, since he didn’t have a watch or a clock in his little home. It seemed to take an eternity for everyone to start heading up to bed, but finally, he heard the telltale sign of life beginning to ebb from upstairs. He got ready for bed, knowing he was going to be miserable when he got outside, but not able to do anything about it. 

Stiles had very limited clothing in his cell. He didn’t even have shoes. He hoped he had time to grab some and a jacket when he got upstairs, but depending on how much time he had to run, he might not get the chance. Running in the snow without shoes would be bad though, and he knew there was snow since he’d been outside only a few short hours ago, and there had been a _lot_ of snow. 

Lying down in bed and switching off the light, he rolled onto his side and tried not to hyperventilate. 

He was getting out. Hopefully, anyway. But holy shit, he was getting out. He’d be outside. Away from Argent. On his way home.

On his way back to Derek. 

God, he missed Derek. It felt like an eternity since he’d last seen him. Even in photos. 

He was worried about him, too. Some of the last pictures he’d seen had shown him not doing so great. He looked like he’d lost a lot of weight, his skin was sallow, and he looked all-around awful. Like losing Stiles was having him deteriorate both physically and mentally. He really needed to get back to him before Derek hurt himself. 

And God, he wanted to hug him. He wanted Derek to grab him and hold him tightly, like he did whenever Stiles was scared, or whenever he himself was scared for Stiles. He wanted to feel him against him, and to know that he was truly free, that he was safe. He was never going to let go of Derek ever again. The next time anyone came for him, he was going to teleport Derek into another dimension or something, fight off the baddies, and then bring Derek back.

He didn’t know if teleporting him to another dimension was a possibility, but fuck was he going to try. He didn’t want anyone to use Derek against him ever again. Because Derek really was his one true weakness. 

Derek was the thing everyone could use against him, and he didn’t like that so many Hunters knew that. 

Thinking about Derek helped pass the time, but it also made him really nervous. He was getting his hopes up that he would be seeing him again soon, but he didn’t know that he was actually going to get out of this place tonight. He was _hoping_ he would, but that wasn’t guaranteed. One wrong move, and he’d be back in the cell, probably with _more_ cuffs. 

It hadn’t taken them long to stop putting the ankle cuffs on with the chain, but if he got caught today, they’d probably make a permanent reappearance. Stiles definitely didn’t want that. He wanted out. He wanted to be safe.

He wanted Derek.

God, he wanted Derek. 

He forced himself to stop thinking about Derek, because he was scared he was setting himself up for failure. Instead, he started focussing on the first part of his plan, which he already knew he could do since he’d done it a few times already. 

It hurt for a few seconds, but the pain was slight after having practised it so much. People often seemed to forget when they took the cuffs off that he’d gotten them put on with restrictors around his wrist, because nobody ever commented on it. He supposed it was because not everyone who came down to put him away were the same people who got him out. They might not know that he had restrictors when he went to the cage, and Kate was stupid enough she probably forgot she hadn’t taken them off. 

Closing his eyes and breathing slowly, he ramped up the magic a little bit, forcing it to push past the boundaries of the spell keeping his magic down. He jumped unintentionally when he pushed a bit too hard and the restrictors snapped, but thankfully the spell he’d been attempting was just anti-nausea, so it wasn’t anything visible. 

Evidently, having one cuff off had already helped his magic quite a bit, considering how quickly the restrictors had come off. That was good, because now all he had to do was wait. 

After what he felt was a sufficiently long time, heart pounding in his chest, he slowly shifted in bed. He had to be careful, because big, sudden movements would be caught out of the corner of the person watching him’s eye. If he moved slowly though, he would hopefully make it harder to catch anyone’s attention. 

Climbing ever so slowly out of bed, and feeling like he was breathing exceptionally loudly, he rearranged the covers in a way that looked like he was still under them, and went to the cell door. He felt better having the one cuff not connected properly, but he still wasn’t at full strength. He wasn’t even at _half_ -strength. 

He’d have loved to go invisible, but he didn’t know if he could do that _and_ get the door open. He was a little short on both time _and_ magic, and the longer he stayed in the camera’s line of sight, the more he risked exposure.

Moving slowly to the cell door, he placed his hand against it and closed his eyes, concentrating hard. It made his stomach roll, because he didn’t have enough strength to push through this kind of magic, but he forced himself to keep going. He was _not_ going to let some stupid cell door stand between him and freedom. Not now. Not when he was so _close_. 

He ramped it up a notch, felt his entire body sway, and then heard a click. He had to grab the bars on either side of the door to stay standing, his vision swimming when he opened his eyes. Shit, _shit_. Okay, no big deal. He was fine, he could do this. 

Letting out a slow breath, he carefully eased one hand off the bars and slowly, slowly pushed the gate open enough to slip through. He was unsteady on his feet, but he kept hold of the cell bars as long as he needed to, stepping out from the cage and carefully shutting the gate again. He didn’t bother locking it, he’d only closed it for the camera. 

He didn’t want to wait there, exposed, for too long but he knew if he took a step and keeled over, that would get noticed. So he clenched his eyes shut, prayed to whatever deity existed, and waited for his head to stop spinning before he trusted himself enough to let go of the bars and start for the stairs. 

It was slow-going, because he didn’t want to make any sudden movements, and he was trying not to fall over from exhaustion, but he eventually reached the steps and began to climb them. As soon as he was sure he was out of sight, he sped up and took the rest of them much faster despite his weakened state. 

Reaching the top, he tried the door, and was unsurprised to find it locked. This one didn’t feel like it was magically enhanced though, just a regular lock, like Gerard didn’t want party guests snooping through his basement and finding the kidnapped teenager he had down there. He’d always thought it was magically enhanced, but maybe Gerard trusted the cuffs, camera and cell enough that he was less concerned about this outer door needing anything more substantial. 

He probably assumed Stiles would never, _ever_ get this far on his own.

Stiles exerted far less magic unlocking that one, but with one cuff still in place, and months of power drain, he already felt like he needed a nap. He would pass out later though, right now, he was so fucking _close_ he could _taste_ it. 

Peeking out, all he saw was shapes in the darkness. A hall table, a lamp, some kind of weird ottoman thing. He didn’t care so long as none of them were people, which they didn’t seem to be, so he inched out of the stairwell and shut the door. 

He’d never been able to see this part of the house before, given he was always blinded before they got him up the stairs, but it was easy finding the front entrance. There was a small foyer that led off into an entry hall full of coats and boots and various other articles of clothing. 

Stiles hastily grabbed a hoodie off the rack, pulling it over his head before grabbing a coat. His legs would get cold with just the sweats he had on, but he’d handle it. He found a pair of boots that looked about his size as quickly as possible, heart pounding in his ears the entire time he worked on getting them on. Once they were laced up, he straightened, and hesitated. 

There was a crossbow resting against the bench, with a quiver of arrows beside it. Stiles didn’t know where he was, or how he was going to get back to Beacon Hills. He didn’t have money, or a phone, or anything. If he had to make do with only his magic, well, a crossbow wouldn’t hurt.

He grabbed the quiver and pulled it over one shoulder, then picked up the crossbow, surprised at how heavy it was. Or maybe he was just _that_ weak, he didn’t know. 

Turning to the door, he unlocked it as silently as possible, and had just started to turn the knob when he froze. His heart lodged itself in his throat when his eyes landed on the security alarm. 

A small red light was flashing, and the darkened screen said ‘Armed,’ which meant it was enabled. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! 

That was kind of a big _fucking_ oversight on Chris and Allison’s parts! How could they not have factored in the security alarm?! They had to know Stiles wasn’t going to escape loudly, he was going to be quiet, subtle, get some distance as fast as possible. How could they overlook something so fucking _critical_! 

Unless... they hadn’t. Stiles knew they were smart. Every single thing they’d done leading up to this moment had been calculated and thought through. Literally everything, from every fake slip, to every extra piece of sugar, down to the crossbow by the door which he _knew_ belonged to Allison. She’d _said_ she had archery the next day, and while he could see her bow in a case against the wall, she clearly had no need to bring her crossbow. It was there for him, he knew it was.

Which meant there was something they had done. Something that had happened. Was it in his food somewhere? No, that would’ve been too obvious. Something in here? On a piece of paper? No, that would be risky. If someone else found it, they’d wonder why it was there. Or worse, they’d toss it and think it was a mistake to have it posted. 

It had to be something more subtle. Something obvious enough for Stiles to catch, but not so much that anyone would—

Stiles froze, staring at the security system. 

When Chris and Allison had left, she’d been complaining about an exam she had coming up. Allison wasn’t the whiney type, and she was _smart_. But she’d insisted she wouldn’t do well. And Chris had said she would get at _least_ an eighty-four, to which she’d replied she’d be lucky to get a forty-six. 

Allison would definitely get much higher than a forty-six, no matter how little studying she got in. And she knew that. 

Stiles popped the panel down to see the numbers, hesitating with his index finger over the eight. If he was wrong, he was about to alert the whole house that he was leaving. If he was wrong, he wouldn’t make it twenty steps before Gerard amped up the cuffs. 

He could feel himself sweating under the layers he wore, and wished more than anything else for this to work. If there really was a God up there, he really needed to give Stiles a break and please, just _please_ let this work. 

Stiles hit the eight, then the four, then the four again, and the six. He let out a slow breath, then hit ‘OK.’ 

His heart lodged itself into his throat when the system beeped once, not loud, but enough to give him heart palpitations. Then the screen lit up light green, and the most amazing word he’d ever seen in his life appeared. 

_Disarmed_.

Stiles threw open the door and exited the house. He made sure to shut it silently behind himself, then looked around. His breath was visible in the cold air, and his legs were already cold despite not having even left the porch. They looked to be set far back into a huge expanse of open space, with a gate up ahead. Stiles knew they lived on an estate, so he needed to get over the fence without being spotted. 

The side of the house looked to have trees, and Stiles decided the back was his best bet. The fresh snow was a bitch, because it meant his footsteps could easily be followed, but snow was falling fairly heavily, and steadily, so he just hoped enough fell to cover his tracks until he was far enough away. 

Holding the crossbow in both hands, and letting out one sharp breath, Stiles jumped down the front steps of the house, raced towards the side, and then went around the back. The snow crunched beneath his feet, and everything felt too bright with the moon and various lights shining off the white powder, but he didn’t worry about that. 

It was the dead of night, he’d made it outside, and he was _going_ to get out of this place. He was going home.

He was going back to Derek.

And nothing, _nothing_ , was going to stop him. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- There are a few discussions between Stiles and Kate about what she did to Derek. Nothing graphic, but she basically admits she raped him and that she can't wait to do it again (because bitch be gross).  
> \- There are multiple threats against Derek to keep Stiles compliant, including having him murdered and tortured.  
> \- Emotional manipulation and conditioning make an appearance thanks to Gerard and his attempts to get Stiles how he wants him.


	16. Returns, Reveals, Revelations

Stiles debated stealing a car multiple times during his escape from the Argent estate. He hadn’t stolen one of the Argent cars because he hadn’t wanted to look for keys, plus the noise, plus the gate. But once he was over the fence and racing through other large expanses of land belonging to other rich fucks, he was starting to feel the exhaustion creep in and the chill seeping into his bones.

Still, he kept running. He ran and ran until he felt like he couldn’t breathe, and even then, he didn’t stop. He was sure he’d been running for at least an hour before he finally hit the end of a road that seemed to lead into a small town. Or maybe it was a big town and this was the downtown core, he didn’t know. All he knew, was he had to stop and catch his breath, and he had to get the second cuff off, now. 

He’d tossed the loose one the second he’d climbed the Argent fence, but the other one was still cinched tight around his wrist. He needed to get it off before Gerard woke up and found him gone. Or before the person on camera duty felt like Stiles’ sleeping form looked a _little_ too flat. Or before someone went down to make hot chocolate or whatever and found the alarm disabled. 

The streetlights were on all along the road, which made Stiles extremely uncomfortable, especially given he was carrying a very obvious weapon, but all the storefronts were dark and he didn’t see any cars. He had no idea what time it was, but he sure as fuck hoped everyone stayed asleep. 

When he started past a storefront, he stopped and doubled back, trembling from the cold and his hands going numb.

It was a hardware store. 

He looked down at the cuff, then rushed to the door. It was hard forcing it to unlock given the state he was in, exhausted, power-drained, and terrified, but he managed to get it open. Thankfully it didn’t seem to have a store alarm, and he just shut the door behind himself and rushed through the aisles, trying to find something that he could use to get the cuff off. He kind of wanted something like a buzz-saw, but he also didn’t really want to accidentally lose a finger. 

He settled on a pair of plyers and an adjustable wrench, sitting down in the middle of the aisle and putting his crossbow down. He used his free hand and his teeth to try and get the clasp undone, breaking two nails in the process and feeling blood, but his hands were so cold and numb that he didn’t really register the pain. He _did_ notice when he chipped a tooth, but that happened just as he got the clasp undone and he just spat the piece of tooth out without caring and grabbed the plyers. 

Grunting when he used them to try and get the opening to separate, he could feel the spikes stretching at his skin, but he kept going through the pain. He used his teeth to hold the plyers in place, keeping the opening slightly separated, then shoved the wrench in. He started expanding the wrench, and cursed when it slipped and the cuff snapped closed again. 

He tried again three times before realizing this wasn’t going to work. He needed something to hold one end so he could pull at the other. He needed two fucking hands. 

Getting back to his feet and leaving the tools on the ground, he grabbed his crossbow and moved through the aisles quickly once more, his two fingers aching now that he was starting to warm up. He didn’t look at them, but he knew he’d ripped those nails off past the quick. It didn’t matter, he would lose as many nails and teeth as he had to in order to remove the cuff. 

Desperation was a strong motivator. 

He finally found some metal clamps and went back to grab the plyers. He made a big enough opening again, holding the plyers between his teeth, and then wedged the clamps against one side. It was crude, and definitely wasn’t perfect, but he almost got it off on the first try before the clamps slipped. 

The second time around, and another ripped off nail later, the cuff clattered to the floor. 

Stiles dropped the tools he was holding and stared at his hands. Both wrists were torn to shit from the repeated abuse, bruised and crusted over with dried blood, but he was free. They were off. The cuffs were _off_! 

He let out a sharp breath and felt his throat tighten. He didn’t have time to cry though. He clenched his hands into fists, then bent down for the crossbow again and raced back for the door.

He paused when he started past the checkout stand. He didn’t even know where he was, and he had no idea how he was going to get any help. Were there any Order members around? Was he in fucking _Canada_? He had no idea. 

Hesitating, he cursed then raced around the counter. He caught sight of a clock beside the register and felt a little better when he saw it was just after four. It wasn’t like anyone would be walking in to open shop at four in the morning, he still had time. And noise in the Argent house didn’t usually start until about seven, so he was okay. He could do this. 

Just when he’d started to search for a card, or a receipt, or just _something_ to tell him where he was, his eyes landed on the phone. It was a landline, one of those cordless phones with a base, and it was in Stiles’ hand before he’d even decided to pick it up.

He knew Derek couldn’t speak. He knew that they couldn’t have a conversation. But he needed to call him. He had to. He _had_ to. 

The number was dialled before he’d finished convincing himself he needed to do this and the phone was at his ear, ringing loudly in the silence of the shop. His heart was pounding and his breathing was ragged as he listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. 

What if Derek had changed his number? His phone had gotten tossed out when Jackson had been thrown out of the car, what if Derek hadn’t kept the same number when he’d gotten a new one? Or what if it was so late he was passed out unconscious with the ringer off? Or what if he saw the number, didn’t recognize it, and decided not to answer since he couldn’t speak anyway?

What if Derek _ignored_ this call and Stiles—

The line clicked. Stiles waited, heart sinking at the thought that it might be a voicemail, but when nothing further happened and he heard someone breathing, he lost the battle with himself and felt tears fall from the corners of his eyes. 

“Derek.” 

There was a loud clatter on the other end, and then heavy breathing, and Stiles couldn’t even imagine what Derek looked like right now. Probably wolfed out, leaping out of bed, trying to ask a million questions that just wouldn’t escape him. God, even hearing him _breathe_ down the line, desperate and panicked, was a salve on every ache he felt. 

“I’m right here,” Stiles promised, sinking to the ground and burying his free hand in his hair. “I’m right here, big guy. I’m okay, I’m right here.” 

Derek was still breathing hard and it sounded like a fucking elephant stampede through the loft. Stiles knew he had to be at the loft, because if he was at the house, the others would’ve woken up by now at the noise. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles promised. “I know you need to get somewhere, I know you need a voice, so do it, and I’ll be right here. I’ll be right here.” He covered his face with his free hand and tried to get himself back under control, but the tears wouldn’t stop. 

Fuck, it felt like so long. It had been just over five months, but it may as well have been five fucking _years_. He’d missed him so much, and just hearing Derek breathe—as panicked and laboured as it was—felt so fucking good. 

When he went silent for too long, there was a loud beep in his ear, followed by a succession of additional ones, like Derek was desperately hitting buttons to make sure Stiles was still there. 

“I’m here. I’m still here,” he promised. “I’m sorry, I just... Fuck, it just feels so good knowing you’re there. Fuck.” He cleared his throat and wiped at his face. When he heard a car door slam and an engine roar to life, he tried to compose himself and looked back up at the counter. He needed to find out where he was. “I don’t have a lot of time,” he admitted, forcing himself back to his feet and beginning to rummage through the papers on the counter. He was leaving drops of blood on it from his ruined fingers, but he didn’t care. Wasn’t like the owner was going to pull a blood sample and send that in to figure out who’d broken into his shop. 

Or maybe they would, but Stiles would be long gone by then. 

Actually, now that he thought about it, he should check the register for cash. He felt guilty, since this was someone’s livelihood, but he was also a little desperate. 

“I don’t know where I am,” Stiles continued, finally finding what looked like a dry cleaning slip. He flipped it around and squinted in the darkness at the address while he listened to Derek hyperventilate and speed. Presumably, he was headed for the Hale house. “I just—I found something. I think I’m in Kentucky. Or this guy goes real far for his dry cleaning.” Stiles dropped it back down and went to find a screwdriver so he could pop the till. “It says Murray, Kentucky, so I’m guessing that’s where I am right now. I’m still really close to the Argent estate, I’m on foot, and it’s snowing, and I’m really not dressed for the weather. I don’t know how much further I can get on my own, but I’m gonna keep running as long as I can.” 

Finding a screwdriver, Stiles went back to the till, cradled the phone between ear and shoulder, and then wedged the end into the gap. He slammed his palm against the back hard and the till popped open. The contents were underwhelming, less than a hundred bucks. He took it anyway, pennies and all, shoving all the cash into the zip-up pocket of his coat. It occurred to him he could’ve used magic to open the till, but he still wasn’t feeling super great and he wanted to have that in his back pocket for when he _really_ needed it. 

He was checking on the time when he heard Derek scrambling out of the car. It didn’t sound like he’d turned off the engine, _or_ shut the door. He just heard gravel crunching, then heavy footsteps on wooden flooring, and then loud pounding. Like Derek had just raced up to the door and was trying to take it right off the hinges. 

_“All right, all **right**!”_ Stiles heard Peter yelling. _“Jesus! Derek. It is two in the fucking—”_

“Peter.”

_“Stiles!”_ He heard a scuffle, then snarling, like Peter had tried to take the phone and Derek had fought him on it. _“Stiles, where are you? Are you okay? What happened? Where **are** you?!” _

_“Stiles?”_ Cora’s voice screeched. _“Did someone say Stiles?!”_

_“What?! Where is he?! Where **is** he?! I’ll go get him!”_ Definitely Jackson. 

“I’m really short on time,” Stiles said, hoping they wouldn’t all talk over each other. “I just escaped the Argent estate, I’m in some place called Murray in Kentucky. It’s snowing a lot, I’m on foot, and not dressed for the weather. I broke into a store and found less than a hundred bucks. I really need some good news right now, please tell me I have somewhere safe to go.” 

As it turned out, because God was only willing to grant him one miracle at a time, he did _not_ , in fact, have anywhere safe to go. He could hear Cora and Jackson on their own phones, calling other members of the pack and also trying to get more information from Deaton on Order members in Kentucky, but Peter tried to keep his attention by asking him questions. 

Was he injured? Was he armed? Could he steal a car? Could he stay where he was? How long ago had he escaped? How far did he think he was from the Argents? 

Stiles answered everything as best he could, trying to focus on Derek’s breathing in an attempt to stay calm. He didn’t know how well it was working, since Derek himself was anything _but_ calm, but he did his best. It was crazy to think they’d gone from California to Kentucky all those months ago, and Stiles hadn’t noticed. To be fair, he’d been blind the whole ride and kept getting knocked out, so he might’ve slept through most of the drive. 

It seemed to take them an eternity to find good news for him, during which Peter kept trying to keep him calm by asking him questions in a steady voice, even though Stiles was sure he was panicking himself at the idea of Stiles being free and yet still trapped. 

_“Found one!”_ Cora’s voice finally shouted, and she sounded louder when she spoke next, like she’d rushed Derek’s phone. _“Stiles! There’s an Order member in Nashville, Tennessee. Deaton just touched base with them. They can come and get you, it’ll be about two hours. Less if they speed.”_

“I can’t stay here that long,” Stiles insisted, feeling panic rising. “I’m hunkered down in a hardware store, and it’s not like I got in here legally. I can’t stick around, and the longer I’m here, the higher the chances of me getting caught. I need to get out of town.” He licked his lips, trying to think. 

_“There’s a Walmart,”_ Jackson suddenly said. _“Stiles, you said Murray, Kentucky, right? There’s a huge, twenty-four hour Walmart there. 809 North twelfth street. Can you make it there?”_

“I don’t know where that is from here,” Stiles admitted, rubbing at his face. “But I can try.” 

_“What’s the address of where you are?”_ Jackson asked. 

Stiles had to dig around to try and find something with the actual store’s address. He finally found it on a random flyer and gave it to Jackson. The other man was silent for a moment, then told him he was about twenty minutes from the Walmart by foot. Twenty minutes was do-able, Stiles could definitely do that. And then he’d be somewhere public, with warmth and presumably ready-made food. Cora confirmed there was a McDonalds and Stiles didn’t care if it clogged all his arteries, he was going to eat so much ice cream. 

Jackson gave him rough directions, and Stiles trusted his eidetic memory to keep them stored long enough for him to make it there without too much trouble. He’d be pissed if his memory decided to fail him now. 

Cora was still on the phone with Deaton and told him where to send the Order member. Since Stiles wouldn’t know who it was, they were meant to show up wearing a Boston Bruins baseball cap and a brightly coloured hoodie. That was about the best they could do, given Deaton didn’t know anything about the Tennessee member, just that he knew there _was_ one from having called around. 

_“Stiles, we’re gonna get you home,”_ Peter promised. _“You believe me, right? We’re getting you home.”_

Lights shone across the front of the store and Stiles ducked instantly. He’d already mostly been crouched, but he made sure to lower himself further. It was still snowing heavily outside, so he knew his footprints were covered up by now, but he didn’t want to risk it. 

His blood ran cold when he heard multiple car doors slams, and then Gerard’s voice. 

“You start at that end,” he said, sounding _exceptionally_ close to where Stiles was. “We’ll start at the other. He can’t have gone far.” 

“I gotta go,” Stiles said, feeling his hands shake. 

_“Stiles?”_ Peter’s voice went sharp. _“What is it?”_

“I gotta go,” he said again, trying not to hyperventilate. “I’ll be at the Walmart. Make sure the Order member comes as fast as they can. I’ll be there.” 

_“Stil—”_

Stiles hung up and set the phone down silently on the counter. He knew being silent wasn’t going to make a difference, he couldn’t get the door locked without being seen, and in his _stupidity_ , he’d forgotten to _lock_ it when he’d broken in. 

He could feel his breathing speed up and his vision darkening around the edges in his panic. Not again. No. _No_! He wasn’t going to let Gerard get him again. He was _out_! He was fucking _out_! And he’d heard Derek. Derek was _waiting_ for him! 

“Dad, over here!” Oh _fuck_ , Kate was right outside, and that was the door opening, and that was people entering the store, and Stiles clenched his eyes shut, hugging the crossbow tightly. 

He didn’t care what happened, he just needed it to happen _now_. 

His gorge rose and his eyes snapped open and everything suddenly lost all colour. Stiles stayed perfectly still, completely confused and unsure of what he’d just done, but everything looked... weird. Angled and sharp and out of focus. 

He flinched when a foot stepped on him, but he didn’t feel anything. Why didn’t he feel anything? 

“Till’s broken,” Blake said, and Stiles was staring up at him, but Blake couldn’t see him, and was _standing_ on him. “Could just be a robbery.” 

“Nope,” Kate’s voice said, and Stiles couldn’t see her, but he felt like she’d just held up the broken cuff, because Gerard let out an angry curse. 

“That little shit,” Gerard hissed. “I knew he was acting weird lately. How could you let this happen?” 

“This wasn’t _my_ fault,” Kate insisted, sounding offended. “Allison was on cuff duty!” 

“Yeah, and you were meant to be _watching_ her,” Chris snapped back from out of sight, presumably by the door. 

“ _You_ distracted me,” Kate snarled at him. 

“Sure, blame _everyone_ but yourself!” 

“Quiet,” Gerard snapped and everyone fell silent. The man moved forward until he was visible, and Stiles saw him rubbing at his mouth, looking to be deep in thought. “He can’t have gotten far. It’s snowing, and he doesn’t have the proper clothes.” 

“There are no footprints outside,” Jenna said. “If he was here, it was a while ago.”

Gerard’s gaze snapped to her, and then he looked at Blake. “Move.” 

Blake obediently moved away and Stiles winced when Gerard stepped on him, expecting pain, but he again felt nothing. He watched Gerard stare at the counter, pull open the till, then he picked up the phone. 

“The phone is still warm,” he said, a small smile on his face. “He’s still here.”

Stiles felt dread pooling in the pit of his stomach when Gerard turned and raised his voice. 

“Aren’t you, boy? You’re still in here. Come out now, and maybe I’ll spare your little wolf friend. If you make me find you, I’ll bring him to your cell and force you to watch me take him apart piece by piece.” 

Stiles clenched his eyes shut and struggled not to panic. Derek was safe. Chris had said so himself, the Chameleon was dead. And Satomi was there. Derek was fine, he was _fine_. Stiles, on the other hand, was less fine. 

“You have five seconds, boy.” 

Stiles could feel himself beginning to lose control. He was starting to panic. And in the back of his mind, he could hear a voice telling him to let go. To just let go. He forced himself to ignore it, because he knew who that voice belonged to.

He could _not_ go Void. Not now. He was too close. He was so, _so **close**_!

“Kate, do a sweep.”

Oh _fuck_ , Stiles should just give up now! If they found him, if he made Gerard have to find him, it would be so, so much worse. He should give up, just go back, obey. 

But he _couldn’t_! He _wouldn’t_! He was _not_ a weapon! He was _not_ a possession! He was a living, breathing human being, and they couldn’t do this to him! He was a fucking _person_ , and he would _not_ —

“He’s not here.” 

Stiles’ eyes snapped open in time for Gerard to twist and stomp one foot right on his face. “What do you mean he’s not _here_?” 

“He’s not here,” Kate repeated, sounding annoyed. Clearly she was unhappy to have been dragged out of bed. “I did a sweep, and he’s not here.”

“Do it again, he _has_ to be,” Gerard snarled. 

Kate let out an annoyed huff, but went silent, evidently obeying. After a few seconds, she spoke again. “He’s not here, dad. If he was invisible, I would be able to sense him. I would be able to find him if he was here.” 

“Shit!” Gerard picked up the till and hurled it across the store. Stiles heard something break, but he was too busy freaking out to pay it much attention.

Gerard was still yelling at people, telling them to get the fuck back to their cars and keep looking, but Stiles didn’t hear him, not really.

Because he _was_ there. He was right there. And Kate hadn’t sensed him. 

Stiles stared at his hands, trying to figure out what was going on, and felt a surge of pride. 

His hands were black. And see-through.

He was a fucking _shadow_! 

_That_ was why they were all at a weird, sharp angle! _That_ was why they were stepping on him! 

And that was why Kate couldn’t find him. Because she was using Witch magic.

And Stiles was using _Mage_ magic. 

He had never been so happy in his life to randomly use magic when he was stressed. He wondered if he could like... shadow travel. Jump from shadow to shadow. 

Stiles figured he could try it, but not right this second. He wanted to wait and be sure the Argents and their group were gone before he did anything. For now, he just waited. He waited while the Argents started up their cars. He waited while they drove away. He waited until he could see the sun creeping through the windows and knew that it had been at least an hour by now.

He had to get to Walmart. He didn’t want to miss his ride. 

While shadow travel would be infinitely cool, Stiles wasn’t willing to risk it and get stuck somewhere, so he spent a considerable amount of time—most of which he was freaking out during—making himself _un_ shadow, and stayed crouched behind the counter. He hadn’t heard anything for ages save the slow rise of cars passing by outside with the hour, people heading to work, but he wasn’t willing to risk it. Being a shadow for around an hour didn’t seem to have done anything to his magic reserves, so he closed his eyes and made himself invisible while behind the counter. Then he hurried through the store and found the back door, disappearing out into the empty back lot. 

He stuck to the back of the shops as long as he could, heading in what he thought was the right direction. Seeing footprints appearing behind him out of nothing was causing him an extremely large amount of anxiety, but so far he didn’t encounter another soul. When he finally ran out of buildings to hide behind, he paused and crouched at the corner, trying to get his bearings and squinting at the closest street sign.

The second he caught sight of it, he cursed. He’d been going the wrong fucking way. Perfect. Awesome. _Brilliant_. 

“Calm down,” he ordered himself, because he didn’t need his panic to make him visible again. “Calm down.” He took a few breaths, got himself back under control, then stood and turned around to go back the way he’d come. When he made it to the end this time on the other side, he mentally pulled up the instructions Jackson had given him and started in the direction he was told to go in. 

There were more cars starting to appear, and the sun was rising. Stiles just hoped that meant his ride would already be waiting for him, but he supposed it depended on how fast the Order member could go in this weather. 

When he reached the Walmart, he’d never been so fucking happy to see anything in his life. He walked inside still invisible, and figured it’d be safest if he stayed that way. His stomach ached with hunger, and he was still weak and tired and scared, but he was so fucking close and he wasn’t going to let himself get caught now because he was hungry. 

Stiles did a quick wander through the store, trying to find someone wearing a bright hoodie and a Bruins hat. He didn’t find anyone, and then headed back towards the front so he could camp out by the door when a woman in her late thirties who was frowning at a set of sweaters spoke as he started past her. 

“Are you Paul?” 

He was positive she wasn’t speaking to him at first, because he was invisible, but when he turned, he saw nobody else was around her and she was still staring at the sweaters. 

“Are you Paul?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Peter’s nephew?” 

Stiles stared at her, and felt his heart leap into his throat. 

Paul was the name he’d given to all of his teachers. He was Paul, Peter’s nephew. It made sense she wouldn’t say the name ‘Stiles’ in the middle of a fucking _store_. 

Her sweater was bright pink, and looked to be from TNA. She wasn’t wearing a hat, but she explained that a moment later. 

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t have a Boston Bruins hat, but if you’re Paul, you’ll know what this means.” 

She was still staring at the sweaters, but she pulled the collar of her shirt and hoodie aside and Stiles saw the Order tattoo on her collarbone. 

He felt like he was about to cry. 

“I’m Paul,” he confirmed in a quiet voice. 

She smiled, still not looking at him, and let her shirt go. “I’ve been looking for you for a while. It’s a big store. It took me some time to realize you might not want to be seen and that you were looking for a hat I didn’t have.”

“You’re a Witch,” he said, not a question. 

“I am. And also a pretty good driver.” She tilted her head slightly in his direction, smiling a little, but still not looking at him. “Would you like to go home, Paul?” 

Stiles felt his lower lip trembling but he forced his voice to remain steady when he said, “I really would.” 

She nodded. “Well then, we should get to it. I have some food in the car already, I took the liberty of shopping while I waited for you. I hear you really like cookies.” She started to head for the exit, and Stiles followed her. 

He was half-terrified this was a trick, that she worked for the Argents and the second he got into the car, he’d be carted back to their place. But she’d said all the right things, and the Paul thing was something nobody knew except his teachers. It hadn’t been mentioned at all on the phonecall with Peter at the hardware store, so it was impossible for her to have guessed that. 

Still, when they reached her car, a large grey Audi SUV, he hesitated. If he got into the car, he would be trapped. He didn’t want to be trapped again.

The woman seemed to notice his hesitance, because she stopped halfway into the driver’s seat, and turned to look at him. He knew she couldn’t see him, but her magic probably gave her a good estimation of where he was. 

“He said to tell you about the eyebrows.” 

“What?” Stiles asked. 

She shrugged. “Peter. He said you wouldn’t want to trust me after what you’ve been through. He told me to tell you about the eyebrows. I have no idea what it means, but he wanted you to know they were stuck in a panicked frown and to hurry up and come home.” 

Derek. She was talking about Derek, even if she didn’t know it. 

“I have a crossbow,” he told her. 

“I’m a lot more afraid of your magic than your crossbow,” the woman admitted, motioning him around the car. “Let’s get you home.” 

Stiles took one more second to steel himself, tightened his grip on the crossbow, and then walked around the car. When he climbed in, he stayed invisible, and buckled himself in. The quiver was uncomfortable, digging into his back, but for now he didn’t care. 

The woman pulled her phone out while he was getting settled and he noticed the battery was in the red at six percent. Evidently that displeased her, because she muttered something rude about Apple under her breath and opened a group chat on Whatsapp. 

Stiles noticed it was called ‘California Order’ and figured it was the chapter that Deaton belonged to back home. She’d probably been added just to keep them apprised. 

He saw her type out, “Package acquired, omw,” and then she watched it send until the two checkmarks appeared, confirming it had made it through despite the low battery. Stiles was honestly surprised it had managed, phones sucked when they were under ten percent battery. 

She stuck the phone back into her pocket while starting the car, turning to glance over at him. “Best you stay invisible until we hit the highway,” she said, turning around so she could ease out of the parking spot. “I’ve never been to Beacon Hills, so this should be an interesting experience.” 

“Who are you?” 

She laughed, shaking her head while turning onto the main road. “Sorry, I probably should’ve started with that. I’m Tara. Tara Graeme.” 

“Stiles Stilinski.” 

She turned to offer him a small, sad smile. “I know. And from what I hear, you’ve had rough go. If you need to let off some steam, yell, scream, whatever, you can go right ahead. We have a long drive ahead of us, but I’m gonna get you home. I promise.” 

“I just want to sleep,” he admitted quietly. 

“Then go ahead and sleep.” She reached forward and turned on the radio, switching stations until soft, soothing music filled the car. She turned the volume down so it was almost just background noise, then put her hand back on the wheel again. “Sleep. You’ve earned it.” 

He fiddled around with the crossbow for a little bit, trying to take the arrow out so he wouldn’t accidentally discharge it in his sleep. It took some doing, but he finally managed it without actually being able to _see_ it. He fiddled with the arrow until he got it into the quiver on his back, eying Tara to see if she’d figured out what he was doing. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the road, and it was likely she had no idea what that noise had been. 

Stiles was still terrified he was going to pass out, and then wake up back in his cell, so while he wanted to sleep, he waited until the sun had risen higher, more cars appeared on the road, and they passed the Kentucky/Missouri border before he finally leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes for sleep. 

* * *

Stiles was startled awake by the sound of a car door slamming and he allowed himself exactly two seconds of panic, thinking he’d been betrayed, until he realized they were at a gas station. Tara was standing at the pump with her credit card in the machine and she lifted the nozzle a moment later to pump the gas. 

Looking down at himself, Stiles saw he was still invisible. He didn’t feel drained at all, but he also knew that invisibility was one of those things he was really good at, so it used less magic. Also, he had the cuffs off, so that was doing wonders for him. He still needed food really badly, but he’d needed sleep more. He figured that he was probably good on the sleep side of things now and could pilfer through all the bags of food behind him in the back seat. 

Opening the door a crack, which caused Tara to turn, he made sure it stayed mostly closed so it wasn’t obvious and kept his voice down. It was unlikely someone would notice the door having opened, but a disembodied voice was a bit harder to ignore. He didn’t want anyone asking questions. 

“Where are we?” he asked, voice coming out thick with sleep.

“Still in Missouri,” she said, turning to look back at the pump and watching the numbers go up. “We’re not making good time, but I didn’t really take into account morning commute traffic. Hopefully things will calm down in the next few hours and we can get across the border into Kansas. We’re only about two hours out, so we should manage that.” 

Stiles nodded and rubbed at his face again. Kansas. They were so fucking far from California. He wanted to just _get there_. Be back home right now.

With Derek. 

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” Tara asked when the pump clanged, suggesting she’d filled the tank up. She tapped the nozzle against the gas tank and then replaced it before confirming with the machine that she wanted a receipt. 

“I probably should.” 

“Stay invisible. We’ll head in together and use the bathroom. Then I’m getting the biggest coffee the place has.” 

“Sorry,” Stiles said, and watched her move over to his door and pull it open. She stood in such a way that it made it look like she was grabbing something from the side door, while still giving him space to get out. 

“Nothing to apologize for, kid. If anything, _I’m_ sorry that I can’t get you home faster.”

“Trust me, you’re doing more than I can ever repay you for,” Stiles said. He unbuckled his seatbelt and put his crossbow down at his feet. It went visible the second he let it go and Tara let out a small whistle. 

“That’s some crossbow.”

“Hunters,” he said in answer while climbing out, pulling the quiver off and tossing it onto the seat. It also went visible and Tara arched an eyebrow. 

“Were you sitting with that on the whole time? How did you manage to get any sleep?” 

“I was tired.”

“Clearly.” She straightened and took a step back, Stiles making sure he was out of her way, and watched her shut the door. “Stay close.” 

Tara led the way into the small store, and Stiles noticed the attendant more interested in watching the small TV above the till than his customers, so it was easy to head to the back. Tara pushed open the men’s door for him, then laughed and made a joke about not being able to read when the guy washing his hands turned to look at her. 

Stiles slipped in while the door was open, and figured she’d find a way to get it open again to let him out. He did his business and washed his hands, and just as he’d been about to head for the door, it opened again, a man walking in. Stiles moved around him and sneaked out just as Tara exited on the other side. 

“I’m out,” he told her. She just smiled at him.

“I know, kid. Witch, remember?” 

“Right.” 

They started back through the small store, Tara heading for the coffee. She grabbed a huge cup, paused, then grabbed two more. 

“See anything you want?” she asked while pouring out some coffee, keeping her eyes on what she was doing and barely moving her lips. 

“Could go for a sandwich or something.” 

“I saw signs for a Burger King up the road. We’ll go through the drive-thru.” She put the coffee pot back and grabbed some milk. “You like anything in your coffee?” 

He hadn’t realized one of those was for him. He figured the other two were hers given how tired she must be. After all, he’d had a nap. 

“Just sugar.” 

Tara got the drinks organized and grabbed a tray, pushing them into the holes. She grabbed a few snacks off the shelves, even though Stiles knew they had food in the car, but he figured she was trying to ensure they stayed stocked up in case they hit any gas stations that had the convenience store side closed. 

After they paid, they went back out to the car and Stiles climbed in on the driver’s side, moving into the passenger seat and re-arranging his crossbow and quiver so they weren’t in an inconvenient place. Tara set one coffee in the cupholder on the dash by the wheel, and the other two in the holder between their seats. Once they were both buckled in and Tara was chewing on a Twizzler, they hit the road again. 

Stiles offered to drive, but Tara said she wanted to wait until nightfall. She agreed she definitely couldn’t drive the whole way—it was strange for someone to admit that, since Derek was so fucking stubborn he always forced himself to stay awake the whole trip—but she wanted to wait until it was dark. Stiles would have to be visible when he drove, and she wanted to minimize people’s ability to see him. Night time meant headlights in people’s eyes and long stretches of dark roads. It was safer for everyone. 

Tara was a really good companion, Stiles found. After months of the Argents, and months before that with wolves, it was interesting to be with someone who knew what he was and didn’t seem to care very much. He figured she probably knew he didn’t want to talk about it, so they spent a majority of the time talking about movies and, occasionally, Tara would just bitch about her work. 

She was a cop in Nashville, but hated a majority of her coworkers. Most of them were men, and they made comments about her only being where she was in life because she was a Witch. Like she’d magicked her way into the position she was in. She spent a long time talking about how she wanted to move away and start fresh, but she wasn’t sure how to go about doing that, or even where to go. 

They always kept conversations fairly light in general, and Tara was very careful to only ever talk about herself. Stiles appreciated it, because he already wasn’t looking forward to talking about what had happened to him. He was worried it would change how people looked at him when they found out what he’d done. 

He knew for sure that Derek would be devastated, considering all of it had been done in his name. 

When night fell, they switched out so Tara could get some rest. She noticed his missing fingernails when he went visible and went full mother on him, bitching him out for not having told her he was injured and then promptly healed the injuries. He felt bad about it, because it clearly exhausted her, suggesting she wasn’t a particularly powerful Witch, and he made sure she didn’t see his wrists. He could heal those himself later, at some point. When he felt up to it. 

Tara slept while Stiles drove. They’d stopped to get some food and coffee before Tara called it a night, so Stiles listened to some night show on the radio while munching on some fries and a few of the cookies from Walmart. 

The drive seemed to take an eternity to Stiles. He knew it was because of what he’d been through, and how eager he was to get home, but a part of him also wondered if it was because he was scared. 

He was scared to go back. To see how things had changed. To see how different _he_ was to the others. He was scared to admit to them what he’d done, what he’d been through. He didn’t want them to look at him like he was a monster. He’d been tempted by Void so many times, and he was ashamed of that. He’d felt proud when he’d been praised, and he felt _more_ ashamed of _that_. 

Also... the Argents knew. They knew exactly where he was going. Sure, he’d escaped, and while they hadn’t caught him right away, it wasn’t like it would take a rocket scientist to know where he was headed. He was scared they’d be waiting for him. What if they were even already there? 

When they were part-way through Utah, Tara noticed his discomfort and asked him what was wrong. He admitted he was worried the Argents were already waiting for him, but Tara promised they wouldn’t get him. Sure, they were Hunters, but Stiles had a pack waiting for him, and with her magic combined with his—which was slowly but surely on its way to being back to full power by now—they were going to make it through the barrier. 

He also felt better knowing Satomi was still in town. Tara had admitted her phone’s low battery when she’d finally found him was partly her fault, because she hadn’t thought to bring her car charger and she’d been on the phone with Deaton and Peter a _lot_. They’d both been filling her in on a few things while she’d been getting dressed on speakerphone, and then a majority of the drive to Murray, Kentucky. 

Peter had known Stiles wouldn’t feel comfortable getting into a car with a stranger after what he’d been through, so he’d been telling her things she could say to make sure Stiles knew she was on his side. She admitted she felt like Peter was talking so much because he was worried Stiles had gotten caught again, and he was trying to distract himself from his own panic.

Somewhere in that long conversation that had thoroughly drained her battery, Peter had mentioned Satomi’s name. She was still in town, which meant there was a protective barrier around Beacon Hills, and nobody could get in without them knowing. 

Still, Stiles didn’t want to enter town via the main road, because that was where Hunters would be camping out waiting for him. And they had the luxury of flying on ahead, so they might already be there. 

When they finally crossed into California, Stiles was behind the wheel again. He felt like he was going to hyperventilate because he was so close, and still so fucking far. Tara kept up some constant chatter, evidently trying to keep him calm, but he could see his hands glowing where they were clenched against the wheel. 

It seemed to take an eternity to reach Beacon Hills, and even then, Stiles detoured to enter town in a roundabout way to avoid the main road. When they drove over the town line, he felt something warm wash over him and Tara let out a small laugh beside him. 

“Guess they’re gonna know we’re coming,” she said, recognizing the sensation the same way Stiles had. 

It was Satomi. Her barrier. It was warm and comforting and inviting and Stiles _may_ have started speeding a little bit. 

He wanted to stop at the loft first, because he was desperate and he needed home and comfort, but he knew it was only home when Derek was there and he was positive Derek wasn’t _at_ the loft. He was at the house, because Satomi would probably be at the house, and Derek was going to be wherever she was since she would be the one telling him when Stiles showed up. 

It felt like years before he finally turned into the Preserve and drove through the trees towards the Hale house. Tara was commenting on how nice the town seemed to be so far, but Stiles could barely hear her over the buzz in his ears. This didn’t feel real. After five months, this didn’t feel real. He was terrified he was going to wake up the second he cleared the trees and be back in his cell in the Argent basement. 

He thought he might die. If he woke up now, he honestly thought he might just _die_. 

When they cleared the trees and the house came into view, there was a group of people standing outside on the porch. His eyes zeroed in on the one figure pacing and the second the car appeared, the pacing stopped. 

Stiles almost floored it into the fucking house but he managed not to and just made it as close as he could before slamming on the brakes. Derek had already leapt off the porch and was racing for the car. 

Without bothering to turn off the engine, Stiles fought with his seatbelt to get it off, hands shaking, and kicked open the door. He almost took the thing clear off in his attempt to get around the door and he bolted for Derek. 

He didn’t have to run very far, because the Werewolf was on him instantly. Slamming into a solid wall of muscle hurt, but not enough to overshadow the fucking _relief_ Stiles felt when he finally wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in Derek’s shoulder. Fuck... _Fuck_! 

God, he smelled so good. And he was so warm. And he was so familiar, and comforting, and amazing, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_! 

Derek was holding him so tightly it actually hurt, but he couldn’t find it in himself to ask him to loosen his grip. Stiles’ fingers were buried in the back of Derek’s shirt, tugging harshly, and Derek had one arm around Stiles’ middle and the other buried in his hair. He was breathing hard against Stiles’ temple, fingers clenching and unclenching against his scalp and rubbing his beard against Stiles’ skin every few seconds. 

Stiles didn’t know if it was him shaking, or Derek. Maybe it was both of them. Fuck, he’d been so scared he’d lose him. He’d been so scared he’d never see him again. It felt insane to realize how long they’d been apart. It felt like fifty years instead of five months. 

Derek pulled away then, Stiles not understanding at first, but then large, warm hands were on his face and Derek was just staring at him, still breathing hard, eyes bright red. He looked completely wrecked, and he closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against Stiles’ briefly, then hugged him again, lips brushing along his temple. 

Stiles never wanted to let him go. He felt like he finally understood Derek when they first met, and how he wouldn’t let him out of his sight. Stiles never wanted to let him out of his sight ever again. 

  
Art by [Fae~](https://faevorite-main-blog.tumblr.com/)

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked, voice muffled against Derek’s chest. “I didn’t know—when we left, you were...” 

Derek pulled back enough to grab his face again, giving him a firm shake. It was a very clear, “I’m fine, because you’re back.” 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles insisted, hands having shifted to grab at Derek’s forearms, nails digging into his skin. He could see light coming from them, the usual glow present when his happiness was so overwhelming he couldn’t contain his magic, but he ignored it. “I’m sorry, Derek. I just couldn’t—I can’t lose you. Not you.” 

Derek’s gaze shifted to Stiles’ left wrist and his expression hardened. Stiles had honestly forgotten what his wrists looked like because he’d been wearing a hoodie and a coat since he’d escaped. 

“Stiles.” 

Derek didn’t release him, but Stiles turned his head and saw Peter. The man looked relieved, but also livid. Stiles didn’t know if he was mad at him, or at the Argents, and really hoped it was the Argents. 

“Come on inside.” Peter reached out and lightly touched his shoulder. “It’s warmer. We made some food for you.” 

Stiles didn’t want to let Derek go, and he was glad the feeling seemed to be mutual, because Derek just tucked him into his side, one arm wrapped protectively around him, and they trudged through the snow towards the porch. Tara was already there speaking to Deaton and Satomi, but the rest of the pack was staring at Stiles like they honestly couldn’t believe he was back. 

Once they were inside, Derek bypassed the living room and headed right for the stairs. Peter called after him, but Derek ignored him and just dragged Stiles along to the bathroom on the second floor. He shut the door and locked it once they were both inside and then sat Stiles down on the closed toilet lid. Bending down, he carefully pushed back the sleeves of Stiles’ clothing and made a very unhappy face at the sight. He gingerly took one of Stiles’ hands and flipped it over, inspecting the permanent injuries and the bruising. 

Stiles watched as black lines formed under Derek’s skin, pulling at his pain. Stiles honestly didn’t know that he had any pain, he was too high on adrenaline right now, and relief, and fucking _joy_ at being back here. 

He was still staring at Derek’s hand gently holding his that it took him a second to realize Derek was speaking to him—well, in his own way. Derek’s other hand came up to touch his cheek lightly and Stiles raised his gaze to Derek’s face. His eyes were back to their usual soft green, but he looked so different than Stiles remembered. 

He’d lost a lot of his muscle, and his skin looked papery and sallow. He looked like someone who’d aged in a very short amount of time and Stiles felt his chest clench at the realization that it was his fault. _He’d_ done that by going with them. 

“I couldn’t let them kill you,” Stiles insisted quietly. Derek pressed his lips together, but Stiles didn’t let him argue. “I know that’s your duty, Derek. I know that the Hales are supposed to protect me to the death, but I can’t—Derek, not you. I can’t lose you. If I had to do it again, I would.” 

There was a soft knock at the door and Derek scowled, baring his teeth, but the door opened anyway. Stiles was positive that had been locked, but it made sense why it opened when he saw who entered. 

“Hello Stiles,” Satomi said with a small smile, moving further into the limited space of the bathroom. “It’s been a long time.” 

“Thank you,” Stiles said quietly. “Thank you for coming. For helping keep them safe. I know what that must’ve cost you.” 

Satomi inclined her head slightly. “I told you once that I had to put my pack first, and that was why I never joined the Order. But when Peter called, I was conflicted. You may not be pack officially, but you are still someone I care about. I spoke to the pack, said I needed to leave for a time, but that I didn’t want to cause any problems. They voted on it, and unanimously agreed to come with me.” 

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up at that. “What?” 

“You are not just the Spark, Stiles. You are a person. A very special person, who means a lot to everyone you come into contact with. The pack came to help. I told them to keep their distance tonight, I knew you would want only yours with you after everything.” She motioned his wrists. “May I?” 

Derek shifted aside slightly, but kept one hand on Stiles’ knee, like he was unwilling to stop touching him. Stiles wasn’t going to complain about that, he kind of wanted to get one of those ‘get-along’ shirts and just live in it with Derek right now. 

Satomi took a seat on the edge of the tub and took one of Stiles’ hands in hers. She inspected the wounds, then very gently pressed her hand over his wrist. Stiles felt only the slightest tug and then it was over. When she pulled her hand away, the bruises were gone and the wounds had healed, leaving behind only stark white scars against his already pale skin. 

“Thanks,” he said while she took his other hand and did the same thing. Testament to how powerful she was, Satomi didn’t seem the least bit affected using healing magic on him. “I actually thought I wouldn’t remember how to properly do magic anymore after that.” 

“I am sorry we weren’t able to help you,” Satomi said softly, sounding remorseful. “We were unable to locate you. Perhaps we were looking in the wrong manner. I am sorry you had to save yourself in the end.” 

“You kept what mattered to me safe,” Stiles insisted quietly. “That was the only reason I _could_ escape.” 

Derek’s hand squeezed his knee tightly and Stiles leaned into him, wanting to just keep touching him forever. Fuck, he’d missed him so much. He lacked the words to describe how glad he was to be back. 

“Come.” Satomi stood then. “There are many people wanting to see you. I know Derek wants to keep you close, but there are more Hales in this house.” She gave the Werewolf a pointed look and he grunted. Stiles knew he wouldn’t be leaving his side at any point in the night, but it was true there were other people Stiles wanted to hug. 

They went back downstairs with Derek still pulling Stiles into his side. When they walked into the living room, Cora was on him, hugging him so tightly it almost rivalled Derek. Jackson had to pry her off and while he didn’t hug Stiles, he punched him in the shoulder and looked so relieved it almost broke his face. 

Stiles managed to hold it together until he got to Lydia. Because she was crying when she went to hug him, and insisted it was all her fault. Hearing her blame herself, and realizing how much the guilt must’ve eaten away at her for the past few months hurt him, because it wasn’t her fault at all. It was the Argents’, and he hated that she’d blamed herself. 

He got a lot of hugs that evening, some multiple times from the same people. Kira seemed determined to break some kind of hug record, closely followed by Isaac and Erica, but Stiles didn’t mind. It felt so good to be surrounded by pack and family and he still couldn’t believe he was back. He knew they all wanted to know what had happened, and Stiles himself wanted to hear about everything he’d missed, but now really wasn’t the time. 

The one time it was brought up, Peter snapped that it could wait until tomorrow. Stiles was grateful, because it was still very recent, and he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. He wasn’t ready to face the things he’d done yet. He knew he would have to, but... not right now. 

Every foreign sound from outside had everyone wolfing out and on edge. Parrish burned a hole through the side table when a branch snapped outside and he went full Hellhound right in the middle of the living room. Satomi promised everyone that no one had crossed the barrier, and she’d put up additional ones around the house, but Stiles was just as freaked out as everyone else, so he couldn’t blame them for being antsy. 

Nobody seemed interested in leaving, but Stiles was getting tired again. He’d had a really long past couple of days, and he was finally coming down from his adrenaline high. Tara ended up leaving with Satomi when it was clear Stiles was flagging, but the rest of the pack insisted they were going to camp out in the living room. Stiles didn’t think they’d be comfortable, but surprisingly Peter had a plethora of blankets that he just dumped on everyone and told them to figure it out. 

Derek led the way up to his old room with Stiles. The bed was quite a bit smaller than the one at the loft, but given how he was feeling right now, he was much happier having the pack camped out downstairs than an old, empty train station. Besides, Derek was probably going to be sleeping on top of him, with the way things had been going since he got back. Not that Stiles could blame him. 

They got ready in the bathroom together, though Derek did manage to leave long enough for Stiles to use the facilities. Stiles didn’t stray too far while Derek did the same and then they went back to the room together. Stiles didn’t have any clothes there but Derek had a few things from his younger years that would fit okay so he pulled those on. 

He noticed Derek’s eyes raking over every inch of him while he was changing, and knew he was looking for any other injuries. Stiles felt like he should’ve had more, but most of them were mental at this point. Nothing Derek could see just by looking at him. 

When he sat down on the bed with Derek beside him, he pressed his fingers into the area where the harpoon had been clean through Derek’s torso. It was smooth and whole, like nothing had even happened, but he knew just because it was gone didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt. 

“I know you’re mad,” Stiles said quietly. “I know that you’re furious about what I did. And I’m sorry I did it. But I couldn’t let them hurt you. And I wouldn’t let her have you.” 

Derek brought his hand up to cover Stiles’ against his own shoulder and leaned forward to press his forehead to Stiles’. It was him telling Stiles that it was okay, and that he didn’t have to talk about it now. 

And Stiles didn’t want to, not yet, but he needed to say one thing. 

“I did things,” he said quietly, feeling his chest clench. “Things I’m not proud of. Things I wish I could take back. But he was going to hurt you. He had—there was someone here. I’m guessing you know that already though.” 

Derek pulled away, expression dark, and he slid one thumb along his throat in a very clear message. 

“Yeah, I know. I heard.” 

Derek motioned himself, and made a face. Stiles understood that for what it was. 

The one who’d killed the Chameleon was Derek, and he wasn’t proud of that, either. 

“I guess we both did things we wish we could take back,” Stiles said quietly. “But I wouldn’t have changed anything if I had to do it again. Not if it meant losing you.” 

Derek’s expression softened and he sighed, pressing one hand to Stiles’ cheek. He let his thumb rub gently back and forth for a few seconds, watching the movement, and then tilted his head to the side, motioning the pillow.

There was only one, since the bed was so small, but they slept wrapped around each other anyway so it wasn’t like they wouldn’t be able to share it. 

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.” 

Derek offered him a small smile and Stiles lay down. When the Werewolf lay down beside him and wrapped him in his arms, Stiles had never felt so relaxed in his life. He’d missed this so much, having Derek right there, holding him like he was the only thing that mattered. Stiles liked to think Derek cared about him as much as he did the Werewolf, and moments like this proved that he did. 

“I missed you,” Stiles whispered into Derek’s chest. 

When the arms tightened around him, he knew Derek was saying, “Me too.” 

Stiles closed his eyes for sleep, and passed out so quickly he’d have thought the food he ate was drugged. 

But it made sense, because he was home, he was safe, and he was with Derek. 

That was far stronger than any sleeping pills. 

* * *

Stiles didn’t remember everything about his dream, but enough to know it was highly unpleasant. He’d never been around for anything that the Argents did, but somehow he still found himself dreaming of a house on fire with people screaming while he tried to get the door open to let them out. Gerard was behind him, patting his shoulder and calling him a good boy while the screams inside died out and finally ceased.

He woke with a start, breathing hard and sweating, but when he tried to move, there were arms around him holding him tightly and he almost panicked for a second before remembering he got out. He _had_ gotten out, right? He was home, he was safe, everything was okay and—

Lips pressed against his temple, the arms tightening, and someone shushed him gently.

Stiles’ brain shut down.

_“Sh, there’s a good boy.”_

No. 

No, no, no. 

Nononono _nononono **no**_!

Stiles lashed out, electricity exploding from his hands so that the person holding him flew clear off the bed. He scrambled backwards and hit the ground hard, looking around and feeling disoriented and sick and his head spinning. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! He thought he got out! What the fuck was happening?! Where _was_ he?! 

Nothing looked familiar, but it did at the same time, and there was a window and Stiles stumbled towards it, tripping on the blankets and hitting the ground hard. 

“What happened?!” The door flew open, light shining into the room, and Stiles whipped around while scrambling backwards on the floor until he hit the wall right beneath the window. 

Peter was standing in the doorway, wolfed out and alert. More members of the pack were flanked behind him, all of them ready for a fight. Peter’s eyes found him, then shifted to the person Stiles had blasted across the room.

Stiles felt his stomach drop because if this was real, if he was home, and Peter was here, then that meant... 

His eyes shot to the body slowly lifting itself off the ground with a groan. Half of Derek’s body was slowly healing from bad electrical burns and he winced with every movement. Peter was beside him instantly, helping him to his feet and pulling at some of his pain while the last of Derek’s injuries healed. 

Stiles buried his hands in his hair, breathing hard. He hadn’t meant to hurt Derek. He’d heard him shush him, something he knew Derek had done more than once since they’d known one another, but it wasn’t the same anymore. That sound meant something different now. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles managed to force out, the two wolves turning to look at him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

“Stiles—” Jackson started to move forward but Peter held one hand out to him, forcing him to stop, eyes on Stiles. 

“What happened?” he asked. His voice was calm, and not at all accusatory, but it was clear he didn’t trust Stiles in his current state and that stung. 

“I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.” Stiles clenched his fingers more tightly into his hair, tugging. 

No one said anything for a long moment, and nobody moved. Stiles was scared they wouldn’t ever move. That they’d just walk out and leave him there, figuring maybe it was a mistake letting him come back. It made sense, after what he’d done. After everything he’d done, including this.

Fuck, he’d literally blasted Derek out of bed. He knew he’d once thrown him through a wall, but that was different. Derek could get thrown through walls without any problems, but electricity was different. Stiles had literally _burned_ flesh right off Derek’s body, and for what? A fucking nightmare? And a sound? He felt fucking pathetic. 

“Derek,” Peter warned and Stiles looked back over at him. He’d moved slowly around the bed, eyes on Stiles, like he wasn’t entirely sure of his welcome. 

When Stiles let one hand fall from his hair and held it out, Derek was beside him instantly, gripping it hard enough to grind the bones together and crouching beside him, one hand on his shoulder and looking worried. 

It was so utterly and completely fucking _ridiculous_ that Derek had just gotten half-barbecued, and yet _he_ was the one who was fucking _worried_. 

“I’m sorry,” he insisted again. Derek just shifted the hand from his shoulder to his face, giving his cheek a light tap in clear dismissal. 

When the Werewolf tilted his head in inquiry, Stiles winced and tugged at his hair a bit harder with his one hand, the other still crushed in Derek’s grip. He could see black shadows creeping up his arms and knew if he wasn’t careful he was going to turn into one. He didn’t want to lose Derek’s grip on his hand so he tried to get himself to calm down. 

“You can’t do that anymore,” he said quietly. “Please, I can’t...” He shook his head, thunking it back against the wall and letting the one hand fall from his hair. “Gerard used to do that to me. Tried to _comfort_ me,” he sneered the word, like it was disgusting on his tongue. “I thought... when I heard it, I thought I was back there. I thought I didn’t make it out.” 

Derek’s hand returned to his shoulder, squeezing tightly in understanding. Stiles’ gaze dipped down to where he’d hurt him, but the skin was smooth and whole. The only indication of his injuries was the smears of blood and the ruined sweats. They were literally hanging on his hip by a thread, half of his thigh exposed and the material still smoking. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The slap he got this time was a bit harder, Derek telling him to stop apologizing. But it was hard, because he’d hurt him, and Stiles had never actually _hurt_ him before. Tossed him around, sure, but he’d never actually caused him bodily harm like this before since they’d become friends and it made him feel like he was going to be sick. 

Maybe what he’d done was going to be who he was now. Maybe it would stick with him forever, and where he once would’ve only thrown Derek out of bed with power, he was now always going to immediately go for something more damaging. Maybe the Argents had won and he was truly just a weapon now, capable only of harm, even to those most important to him. 

“Stop it.” 

Stiles started at the voice and looked up. Jackson was standing at Derek’s shoulder, fists clenched and looking pissed. 

“What?” 

“Stop it,” Jackson repeated angrily, eyes burning blue briefly before returning to their usual colour. “I know what you’re thinking. I know, because I’ve thought that, too. I was with Harris for eight years of my life. Eight years, Stilinski. It does things to you. It makes you think maybe everything you’ve been told is true. Maybe you _are_ just an object meant to be owned. Maybe you _are_ nothing more than a thing for people to enjoy. Maybe you _are_ meant to be put on display. But the second you let those words take hold, they become true. And the second they’re true, then they _win_.” Jackson clenched his jaw. “I didn’t let them be true. I didn’t let Harris take anything more from me. He captured me, hurt me, chained me up and paraded me around like a prized pet owner. But I didn’t let him turn me _into_ a pet, and that was _my_ choice. So whatever bullshit those assholes did to you, you don’t let them turn you into what _they_ wanted, or else you’re letting them win. And I didn’t turn around and come back to save the life of someone who’d let Hunters win.”

Stiles felt his chest beginning to crack in agony. “You don’t know what I _did_!” he insisted, wishing he could suck the words back in, because he didn’t want them to know. He _didn’t_! 

“I don’t _care_ what you did,” Jackson snapped back, making a rough cutting gesture. “You did what you had to do, same as me. Sometimes, we don’t have a choice in our own actions. Sometimes we have to do things we’re not proud of. But you don’t get to let other people dictate who you are when you did something under duress. Do you know who you are? Because I do.” Jackson took another step forward. “You’re the guy who let himself get brought into a house with maximum security and a _stupid_ plan just so he could try and help others. You’re the guy who was being hunted through the woods and still stopped to help someone who was pretty much guaranteed to die but you weren’t willing to leave him behind. You’re the guy who had to watch the person he cares about get hurt, and made a deal with people who would do far worse to you just to make them stop.” 

Jackson crouched so he was right beside Derek, who was still gripping Stiles tightly enough to hurt, but staring at him like he was thinking every word coming out of Jackson’s mouth himself. 

“You’re the guy who did unspeakable things all so that he could keep the people he cared about safe. You think that weirdo illusion dude didn’t sing like a canary when we caught him? He told us everything. You were compliant because _he_ was in Beacon Hills threatening the rest of us. You didn’t do anything because you _wanted_ to, you did it because if you didn’t, they would hurt Derek. Or Cora. Or me. You did everything you were asked to keep us safe. And as soon as you knew we _were_ safe, you got out. _You_ did that.” Jackson jabbed, rather hard, at Stiles’ chest. “ _That_ is who you are. The kind of person who sees someone being hurt, and stands up and says _no_. The kind of person who got a Nephilim’s wings back, who saved five people from a Collector’s home, who’s trying to bring this pack together around a broken, cursed Alpha.” 

Derek didn’t seem to like that last one, but his expression didn’t suggest he was in disagreement. To be fair, it wasn’t like Stiles hadn’t noticed the pack had slowly been coming around more ever since Stiles had gotten them used to Derek’s method of communication. Maybe no one could understand him _quite_ as well as Stiles, but they were trying, and they were improving, and that was what mattered. 

“You are not what they made you,” Jackson bit out. “Don’t you _dare_ let them make you think otherwise. You are _you_ , and we are _going_ to fix this. You tell us what we need to know, and that’s it. You don’t owe anyone any explanations, and you certainly don’t owe us apologies. So, what did Hale do that we all need to steer clear of?” 

Stiles’ gaze shifted to Peter, who was watching him expectantly. He also seemed a little proud, like maybe Jackson had been different the past few months and he appreciated the change now that Stiles was back. Parrish, Boyd and Cora were the only ones visible at the door, but he knew the others were there. Listening. Waiting. 

Licking his lips and wincing, Stiles forced the words out. “After a job, whenever—when he made me do things, I would sometimes throw up. And even when I didn’t, I was in bad shape. Gerard always... he would pull me close and shush me.” Stiles winced, not wanting to say the words aloud, but managing to get them out anyway. “He would shush me and call me a good boy.” 

A low growl started somewhere deep in Derek’s chest at those words, and it occurred to him that maybe Stiles wasn’t the only one in the room who’d been told by an Argent that he was a _good boy_. 

Jackson turned to look at the rest of the pack. “If any of you fuckwits _ever_ call him a good boy, I’ll tear your fucking faces off.” 

“Stop pretending you’re the only one who cares about him,” Cora snapped. 

“Children,” Peter said reproachfully. “Focus. This isn’t the time.” He moved forward, leaning against the wall and sighing while staring down at Stiles. “If you break my nephew, you owe me a new one,” he informed him. 

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” Stiles managed a small smile. 

Peter nodded, then let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “I’m not getting any more sleep tonight.” Stiles knew that wasn’t true. He knew that Peter was well aware _Stiles_ wasn’t going to get any more sleep tonight, but he wasn’t going to call him on it. “Pancakes?” 

“Waffles?” Stiles asked. 

“You’re so inconvenient,” Peter informed him, but Stiles knew that was an affirmation. “Go take a shower, little Spark. You stink of fear and I don’t want eau de terror in my coffee.” 

Stiles let out a small, short laugh as Peter turned and shooed everyone out of the room, telling them to stop being lazy and make themselves useful in the kitchen. Jackson was the only one who stayed behind when the door shut.

And Derek, of course, but that was a given. Peter couldn’t have dragged him away if he’d tried. 

“When did you become the voice of reason?” Stiles asked Jackson. 

“Someone had to keep this idiot in line while you were gone.” Jackson motioned Derek with a jerk of his head. “You owe me, by the way. He’s a fucking pain in the ass.” 

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.” 

Derek rolled his eyes and Stiles was sure he was mentally flipping them both off. 

They stayed like that for a moment longer until Stiles felt like he could stand again. He apologized to Derek once more and got a flick to the forehead in response, and a finger wag. He figured three apologies was enough for now, maybe he’d make some cookies later as an extra layer of apology. Derek seemed to like his cookies. 

He was adamant that he could shower _alone_ , thank you very much Derek Hale and Jackson Whittemore, but he knew they’d be camped outside the door in case 

When he was under the spray, he sat down on the floor and let the water beat down on him, burying his hands in his hair and breathing. Just breathing. He’d made it out. It had only been five months, he didn’t know why it was affecting him so badly. Jackson had survived eight _years_. By comparison, five months was nothing and he felt pathetic.

But he also knew Jackson hadn’t been forced to kill anyone. The deaths at Jackson’s hand had been his own choice, and Stiles didn’t blame him for killing Harris for even a second. But the people Stiles had helped kill... 

It was something he was going to have to live with. And he knew it was going to take a very long time for him to come to terms with what he’d done. 

He stayed sitting on the floor until the water started to run cold, then he stood up and worked on clearing the stench of fear off his skin.

He didn’t want to ruin Peter’s coffee. 

* * *

Stiles knew he had to talk about what had happened eventually. He’d mostly given the pack the basics while they’d been eating waffles and, for some inexplicable reason, spaghetti in the middle of the night. He’d just explained what they’d done to him and how they’d kept him in line, which sounded like information they already had, courtesy of Jeff. 

He didn’t like having to talk about some of the things that had gone down, and decided those would be for Derek only, but he did tell the group at large that he had _not_ been sexually assaulted in any way because he could tell that was something a lot of them had been worried about. 

Isaac’s full body sag at the confirmation made it explicitly clear he was positive someone would’ve done something like that to him. Thankfully, Kate still had her eye on Derek, not that Stiles was going to say as much. 

As the days passed, things got a bit easier. They still stuck around the Hale house, Jackson having gone to get some clothes for Stiles at the loft. He still wasn’t fully comfortable with being apart from the pack, and while they didn’t all spend the night every night, they were around often enough to make Stiles feel better. 

He also got to see Satomi and the Ito pack again, which he was happy about. Heather had been in tears when she hugged him and had apologized profusely for everything she’d ever said and done. Stiles felt bad she was so devastated, but he hoped this meant they could put everything behind them and just start fresh. 

If nothing else, she and Derek seemed to be getting along fairly well, so that was a nice change. He figured if the Ito pack had been around for a few months, and all of them had seen the difference between the Derek they’d known in New Mexico versus the Derek they’d seen while Stiles was gone, opinions would change and fences would mend. 

Though Stiles _was_ pretty upset to find out Derek had broken his guitar. Apparently Derek had broken a lot of things the past few months. Nobody really talked about it, because Derek was always around and it was clear he wasn’t happy with his own behaviour, but Stiles put enough pieces together to figure things out. 

Every time Derek had tried to distract himself, he’d gotten mad and ended up breaking things. It was why Peter had kept forcing him to move back into the Hale house while Stiles was gone, though he never stayed for long. Peter did what he could against his Alpha, needing him to be close. Not only to stop him from destroying the loft, but also to keep an eye on him since Derek looked like shit. Stiles told him so a few times since his return, not because he was trying to be mean, but because he really needed Derek to start taking care of himself again. 

Stiles had to forcibly feed him most of the time because Derek was so involved with making sure Stiles was okay that he would forget about himself. Stiles didn’t, and so, it turned into a battle of them trying to take care of each other that usually ended with Jackson getting annoyed and forcing them both to sit down and stop being annoying. 

A week after his return, there was still no sign of the Argents, and Stiles still hadn’t spoken to anyone about what he’d done, and a few key other things. He wanted to talk to Derek about them, but he was also scared he would look at him differently. He’d _just_ gotten him back, he couldn’t handle losing him again. 

But he also knew he needed to discuss it with _someone_. The nightmares were only getting worse, and while he hadn’t blasted Derek out of bed again since that first day, he kept worrying that he _would_ if he didn’t get it out of his system. 

So on day eight, when he and Derek were heading back upstairs after breakfast, Stiles stopped at the landing and turned to face him, making Derek stop on the top step. Stiles crossed his arms over his chest defensively, made a face and avoided Derek’s eye. 

“Can we talk?” 

Derek studied his expression for a long while, then motioned back down the stairs. Stiles followed him to the front door, but hesitated when he opened it. Derek turned back to him, then motioned himself. 

“Trust me,” he was saying. And Stiles did. More than anything. 

So he followed him outside. 

They moved to a sleek black car with a glossy finish, Derek unlocking it with the press of a button. Stiles frowned down at it unhappily, because it wasn’t the Camaro. But the Camaro was at the bottom of a ravine, and it likely wasn’t salvageable. This one looked like a Mustang, and while it was a gorgeous car, he still didn’t like it. 

He wanted the Camaro back. He wanted things to be like they were. 

He didn’t want more change in his life. 

Derek patted lightly on the roof of the car and Stiles looked over at him. The Werewolf raised his eyebrows in inquiry. 

“Sorry. Just—thinking about the Camaro.” 

Derek pressed his lips together while Stiles opened his door and climbed in. Once he was buckled in, it occurred to him that he had no idea where the crossbow was. He’d last had it in Tara’s car, but he hadn’t seen her since he got back. For all he knew, she’d left town. 

He hoped not, he hadn’t exactly thanked her for her help. And she’d been good company while driving back across the country, so he definitely wanted the chance to thank her and wish her well. 

Derek started the car, the engine purring softly. Stiles always figured muscle cars were supposed to have loud engines, but he supposed for a Werewolf, any engine was loud, no point in getting a car that would shatter eardrums. 

He expected to be driven to the loft, and while that was sure to be the final destination, they made a pit stop in town first. There was a set of units above the convenience store in town, and when they reached it, Stiles understood who they were coming to get. Nobody in the pack lived here, but it had enough space _for_ a pack, so that could only mean one thing. 

Derek motioned for Stiles to wait, then seemed to take an eternity to leave the car, like he was worried Stiles would go missing in the space of time it took him to get to the door and back. Eventually, he managed it, locking the car up and jogging the few steps to the side door. He rang the buzzer a few times, and then hurried back to the car. He climbed back in beside Stiles, and they waited.

Predictably, Satomi emerged from the building a few moments later. Stiles didn’t know if she’d been waiting for this, or if she’d just expected it. In a way, he didn’t want her there when he told Derek everything, but at the same time, he knew he needed someone like her present. 

Derek, after all, couldn’t say anything to help him. While Peter was a good voice of reason, and Noshiko was calm and understanding, Satomi was the one Stiles felt closest to when it came to things like this. He supposed it was because of everything he’d been through with her, and the level of trust he had in her. 

After all, he hadn’t run when she’d found out the truth, and she hadn’t told anyone. The mutual trust there was palpable. 

“Hello Stiles,” she said, climbing into the cramped back of the car. “Derek. I brought some lemon squares, I thought perhaps we could enjoy some sweets with our tea.” 

Derek just grunted and Stiles thanked her in a subdued sort of way. They were driving again in seconds, heading for the loft. Stiles wanted to see it so badly, but was also scared to, because it would make everything real. Seeing what it had become in his absence would make everything way too real. 

Still, when Derek parked the Mustang outside the large building, it hurt his chest in such a good way. It felt so good to finally be home, _truly_ home. With Derek. At the loft. 

The three of them headed for the door together, Satomi in the rear and Derek leading the way. He got the door open, and Stiles noticed it didn’t open and close properly, like it had been ripped off and put back on a few times. When he stepped into the building, his eyes strayed across the entire expanse of the bottom floor. 

“I see you redecorated,” Stiles said, trying for amused, but the wince from Derek made it clear he wasn’t proud of himself.

Stiles’ usual train car wasn’t on its side anymore. It was right-side up, all the windows were smashed, and the metal of it was deformed and caved in, the car right up against the far wall. The other one was upside down and looked no better. The cinder blocks it used to be housed on were piles of rubble, most of the walls had cracks and holes in them, and the entire area looked like a very angry Werewolf had torn the place to shreds. 

It was probably a good thing Werewolves couldn’t go Void, because he worried Derek might’ve in his rage. He felt bad for having put him through that, but if it came to it, he’d do the same thing again. Derek’s worry and rage was far better than the loss of his life. 

Derek touched his arm and motioned towards the stairs with a jerk of his head. Stiles climbed them with him, noting that even the stairwell hadn’t survived Derek’s anger. It was less destructive, but there were still a lot of broken steps and missing hunks of wall. 

When they reached the top, the sliding door for the loft was gone, presumably because it was damaged beyond repair. Stiles walked in and looked around, heart aching at how much had changed, and how much hadn’t. 

There was no couch anymore, though the remnants of fluff and upholstery suggested it hadn’t escaped in one piece. The coffee table was still there, but in veritable splinters. Stiles’ desk and bookshelves were untouched though, like Derek couldn’t bring himself to destroy something that belonged to him. The TV had survived the worst of it too, though it _did_ have a crack down the middle of the screen. 

Stiles walked slowly through the loft, looking at all the broken furniture and various holes from angry fists. The bathroom seemed to be in one piece, but the stairs leading upstairs were misshapen and twisted to such a degree he didn’t know how Jackson had managed to climb them to get to Stiles’ clothes.

Then again, he was part Werewolf, he’d probably just leapt up to the second floor. Like a fucking asshole. Werewolves sucked, the jerks. 

When Derek touched his shoulder, Stiles turned to him, and the expression on his face broke his heart a little. 

“It’s okay, buddy.” He slapped him lightly in the chest. “I’d have been the same way. Just means we get to go on a shopping trip to buy new stuff. But if you shredded my pillow, you’re sleeping on the couch for the rest of time.” 

Derek half-smiled at that, and Stiles wondered if maybe the second floor had survived the worst of it since Peter kept forcing Derek to leave the loft. Either way, they were lacking in furniture, but enough of the dining table had survived and they managed to find two workable chairs and a stool so they could all sit down. 

Satomi went to make some tea, leaving the lemon squares on the table. Derek held the container out to Stiles, and while he did take one, he couldn’t bring himself to eat it. He just picked at the edge of it, crumbs falling onto the broken table and making a bit of a mess. Derek didn’t comment on it, he just grabbed his own square and shoved it into his mouth, like he was trying to act normal.

Stiles knew nothing about this entire situation was _normal_. 

It didn’t take long for Satomi to reemerge with tea. The three mugs she had were all intact, but Stiles didn’t know if that was because the kitchen was in one piece or because those were literally the only mugs that were still intact and she’d happened to find them. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, taking his. He wasn’t really interested in tea or lemon squares, but he knew Satomi was trying to make this as safe an environment as possible. Derek too, considering he’d brought Stiles back to the loft. 

Setting the lemon square on the table without much thought, Stiles wrapped both hands around the mug he held, staring down into the dark liquid. “I don’t really know where to start.” 

“Wherever you think you need to start,” Satomi said softly. 

For a few moments, they sat in silence. Derek and Satomi were drinking their tea and making it clear they weren’t going to rush him. Stiles just kept staring into his own drink, trying to figure out what he wanted to say. Nothing about what was coming was going to be okay, and he really didn’t want to lose Derek. Or Satomi, actually. And now he was worried he would. 

“Sometimes after a job, when Gerard told me he was proud of me, it made me happy.” The words were out before he could stop them, and the second they were, he tensed and exhaled sharply. He hadn’t meant to start with that one. It somehow felt worse than everything else that had happened to him the past five months. Knowing his abuser was proud of him and being _happy_ to have made the man proud. It was... wrong. Sick. Twisted. 

He knew all that, but it still made him happy sometimes. 

“That must be very confusing for you,” Satomi said softly. 

“It’s sick,” Stiles bit out, still staring into his cup. “It’s sick, and disgusting, and I hated it every time I got happy. But I was just so isolated, and I barely spoke to anyone, and just the smallest amount of recognition meant so much, even if it was bad recognition. But it’s sick and I shouldn’t have.” 

“Good,” Satomi said. 

Stiles flinched at the word, but realized she wasn’t done when she continued. 

“You recognized why it made you happy, which is good, Stiles. Because you knew you weren’t happy to hear the praise because of what you did, you were happy to hear it because you were isolated and receiving anything was better than nothing. That is the most important part, and you already know it.” 

“It doesn’t _matter_ that I know why I liked it, I shouldn’t have. I wish I didn’t. I _hate_ that I did.” He tightened his grip around the cup, and was positive he’d have shattered it if not for Derek’s hand moving to take it gently from him. He set it aside, and then took one of Stiles’ in his own, squeezing hard. 

Stiles was scared to look at him, to see the disgust, or disappointment, or _shame_. But he had to know how irreparable the damage was, had to know how _bad_ it was, so he did. 

He looked over at Derek, and the expression on his face made Stiles almost lose it.

Because it wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t disappointment, or shame, or anger. It was worse.

So, so much worse. 

It was _understanding_. 

And Stiles felt his stomach hit his feet. “She did that to you too, didn’t she?” he asked without meaning to. “She hurt you, and then would say something to you, and you’d feel happy even though you didn’t want to.” 

Derek’s lips turned down slightly and his hand tightened around Stiles’, and he knew. 

He knew what she’d said to him. 

“She told you she loved you, didn’t she?” 

Derek’s jaw worked, but his expression made it clear Stiles was right. 

Kate would hurt Derek. Torture him, abuse him, make him wish he was dead. She _raped_ him, and kept him in a cage, and then when he was broken and falling apart, she would tell him how much she loved him. And Derek would feel happy to hear it, because he needed _something_ to make the pain worth it. He needed something to hold onto. 

Just like Stiles needed that praise. Needed to hear that he’d done such a good job, that he was a _good boy_. 

The Argents were master manipulators, apparently. He wondered if that was on their work CV, it seemed to be a pretty good skill. 

“It isn’t easy forgiving yourself for that,” Satomi said quietly, Derek’s gaze shifting back to her. Stiles forced himself to look at her as well, but didn’t let go of Derek’s hand. “You’re going to fight with yourself for a long time over those feelings, but you need to understand that what you felt was the intention. It is what he _wanted_ you to feel, so that you would obey. So that you would do whatever was asked of you to feel that way again. People like the Argents are very good at what they do, and I am going to ask you to remember that what you thought and felt at the praise is completely normal given the circumstances.” 

“It doesn’t make me feel any less awful about it,” he admitted. 

“No, I don’t imagine it does. And I would expect you will find praise uncomfortable for a long time, no matter how small. But the only way to heal, to erase what he did, to not let him control you, is to put one foot in front of the other, and to keep moving forward.” 

Stiles shifted his gaze to the hand holding Derek’s. He could feel his throat itching, his eyes burning, and he brought his other hand over to cover Derek’s, holding it tightly before he spoke again. 

“I think I helped kill a lot of people.” 

Satomi put one of her own hands on Stiles’ forearm gently. “That is a pain nobody can take from you. That is something you will need to come to terms with in your own time, in your own way.” 

“I never wanted to be this,” he insisted, sniffing and wiping his cheek against his shoulder so he wouldn’t have to let go to Derek. “I could’ve said no. I could’ve refused, rebelled. But I didn’t. Because I was selfish. Because the people I cared about mattered more than the people I was hurting.” 

“That is the hardest price to pay,” Satomi admitted. “Caring too much, as opposed to too little. I am sorry, Stiles. You protected your pack, it is what any of us would’ve done.” 

“It’s not what you did.” Stiles looked at her, sniffing again and ignoring the moisture spilling from his right eye. “You said you couldn’t join the Order for me because your pack came first. But I went missing, and now here you are.” 

“That is different.” 

“How? You put me above your pack. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t...” Stiles tightened his hold on Derek’s hand. _I couldn’t let them have him,_ he wanted to say. 

And that was when it hit him. Like a fucking freight train.

It was when he realized what this was, why Derek mattered so much. He’d been feeling that way for a while. For months. Long before his fight with Heather in the woods of New Mexico. Probably since before even Ennis. 

This feeling Stiles had for Derek, it was something foreign. Something he hadn’t understood and had just attributed to friendship. Derek _was_ his best friend, he would never deny that, but this was more. It was like how he’d felt about his father, but different. Because he recognized the difference between what he felt for his dad, what he felt for the others, what he felt for Satomi even... and what he felt for Derek. 

Stiles’ gaze snapped to the other Werewolf, who was staring back at him with a comforting expression, holding his hand and giving him everything he needed. 

He always gave Stiles everything he needed. Because that was who Derek was. Selfless and kind and an ooey, gooey marshmallow, hidden behind a gruff exterior and truly impressive eyebrows. 

Fuck.

Stiles was in love with Derek. 

Now was really not a great time for that kind of revelation. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- Stiles injures himself fairly badly trying to remove the cuffs. I know some people have issues with certain things (ie: eye things TOTALLY squick me) so if you have a nail thing, maybe skim that part.  
> \- Stiles unintentionally hurts Derek fairly badly. Derek's fine, he's a Werewolf, but he uses harmful magic on him by accident after getting freaked out.  
> \- Stiles talks about what he was forced to do with the Argents, and there's some more discussions of what Kate did to Derek, along with confirmation on some items and the same emotional manipulation that was used on Stiles having been used on Derek.


	17. Difficult Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late upload, it's been a day.

“I was thinking about drums.” 

Stiles jumped and turned when Jackson moved up behind him, plopping down on the back steps with a beer in his hand and looking out at the falling snow covering the impressive property belonging to the Hales. 

“What?” he asked, though was a little distracted by the bottle in his hand. 

“Drums. You know, Derek’s got the guitar, Cora insists she’s got a great singing voice,” he glanced at Stiles while bringing the bottle to his lips, “spoiler alert, she doesn’t, I’ve heard her in the shower.” He took a sip of his drink, licked his lips, then continued. “I thought I could learn the drums. We could be like a really bad garage band that only knows how to play ‘Smoke on the Water.’” Jackson let out a sarcastic laugh. “Shit. Never thought I’d miss hearing him play _that_.” 

“You’re not old enough to drink,” was Stiles’ very smart response to that. 

“Doesn’t matter.” Jackson held the bottle in front of himself and sighed. “Can’t get drunk anyway.” He paused, tilted his head, then held it out to Stiles. 

Hesitating for only a second, Stiles took it, stared at the label for a few seconds, then tilted his head back and chugged the whole thing. It had been almost entirely full, and Jackson let out a small laugh when Stiles gasped, wiping his hand across his mouth and handing the empty bottle back over. 

“Damn, Stilinski. Didn’t know you had it in you.” 

“Rough year,” Stiles muttered. 

“Mm,” Jackson agreed, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his thighs, holding the bottle between his hands. 

They both sat and watched the snow fall, the lights bouncing off the white making it seem lighter out than it truly was. It was nearing ten by now, and Stiles knew he should head back inside, but he wasn’t willing to face reality yet. He wanted to just sit outside for a while longer and watch the snow fall.

It was Christmas in two days. 

It seemed insane to think that. He hadn’t been home for very long, but it was already Christmas. His second one with the Hales. His second one without his dad. Jackson’s first one since he was a child. 

The Ito pack was still there. Satomi seemed to want to stick around for a while longer, to make sure Stiles was okay. He didn’t mind, it’d be nice having them there for Christmas. 

The problem with that, was that it was also very tempting, now. Having Satomi here, with her pack. She wanted him in it, he knew it. She’d told him as much back in New Mexico. And now more than ever, it was tempting. 

Not because he wanted to leave his pack, because he didn’t. Lord knew he didn’t. 

But he just... he didn’t know what to do. 

He’d already taken so much from Derek, and to realize he was in love with him... it hurt. Stiles hated that he was in love with him. Because it wasn’t fair to Derek. He already didn’t have a choice in a lot of things in his life, and the last thing Stiles wanted to do was take another choice away from him.

Because he knew Derek well enough that if he admitted how he felt, Derek would do whatever he thought would make Stiles happy. He would give up everything to be with Stiles however he wanted him, and after what he’d been through with Kate, Stiles couldn’t do that to him.

He _wouldn’t_ do that to him. 

But being around him now that he knew was hard. Because Heather was right, all those months ago. She was right about Stiles and Derek. They _didn’t_ act like best friends. They hadn’t for a long time. 

It was different, though. Stiles was unconsciously doing it because he was in love with Derek, and just hadn’t realized it because he hadn’t exactly known what it was supposed to feel like. Derek was cursed. He was touchy feely with everyone, because that was the only way for him to communicate. And he was a Werewolf, cuddling and being close to everyone was second nature. 

And he was an Alpha, to boot. He drew his strength from pack, from closeness. He was treating Stiles no different than any other member of the pack. At least, he would, if Stiles ever let him hang out with the rest of the pack. Because Derek never strayed too far from him, especially not these days. 

Even now, Stiles knew that Derek was hovering at one of the windows, watching Stiles sitting outside instead of enjoying the festivities going on inside. Kira had come over with a bunch of holiday movies and Christmas-themed board games. Everyone was having a laugh inside but Stiles wasn’t in the right headspace for that kind of cheer. 

He was still learning to live with the things he’d done, and seriously wondering if therapy was on the table for someone like him. Satomi was great, and she and Derek listened whenever he needed an outlet, but he felt like this might be beyond Alphas. This might be something that required professional help. 

But he had no idea how to get that. 

More than anything, he just wished Derek would go and have some fun, for once. Not hover and be worried about him. Stiles was safe here, on the back porch. Not only would someone hear if he needed help, but Satomi had erected so many barriers around the place that Boyd, Isaac and Erica had almost gotten lost trying to find the Hale house, and they practically almost lived there. 

Nobody was coming for him. Gerard likely knew when to cut his losses. Stiles knew he wasn’t done, not even close, but Gerard was a smart man and he was going to bide his time. Stiles just had to hope he was better the next time the Argents came knocking. 

“I don’t think I can stay here,” Stiles said. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but it was out before he could stop himself. 

“We can go back inside,” Jackson said. “It’s warmer in there, anyway.” 

“That’s not what I mean.” Stiles leaned forward so he was mimicking Jackson’s own pose, elbows on his thighs and hands clasped together. “I think I should go. Somewhere else.” 

Jackson froze. “What?” 

“Satomi’s pack owns a lot of land. It’s kind of hidden in the middle of nowhere. She asked me to join her pack once, but said she’d respect my decision and—”

Stiles let out a shout and turned to glare at Jackson, rubbing the back of his head. He paused at the fury he saw on the other man’s face. 

“I’m going to blame the alcohol for the garbage coming out of your mouth right now,” Jackson hissed, sounding more Kanima than human in that moment. His eyes were glowing blue, and scales were slowly beginning to creep up his neck from below his shirt. 

“You don’t understand,” Stiles insisted. 

“No, I don’t!” Jackson snapped angrily. “You weren’t _here_! You didn’t _see_ what it did to him! I did!” 

“Hey!” They both turned when Peter stepped outside, scowling at them. “Why are you two trying to ruin the good cheer? I only let you sit out on the fun because I wouldn’t force this torture on anyone but the morons inside, but if you start ruining my entertainment, I can add you to the list.” 

Jackson seemed done with the conversation anyway, because with another murderous look at Stiles, he got to his feet and shouldered past Peter back into the house. Peter cocked an eyebrow after him, shutting the door and shoving his hands in his pockets while moving forward to stand beside Stiles. 

He just turned back to the yard, continuing to watch the snow fall, and ignoring how much Jackson’s words hurt. 

“I sent Derek to get some potatoes.” 

Stiles frowned and looked up at Peter. “Why?” 

“Because I felt like it,” he said with a small smile. “And because I can tell when someone needs space, even if he can’t. I only managed to get him to leave because Kira dragged him out by force. Of course, it means someone has to stay with you until you come back inside, but it would seem Jackson’s short temper is still, well, relatively short.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, because he didn’t know what else to say. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” 

“Not really.” 

“Mm.” Peter hummed. He was silent for a moment, then said, “Would you like to talk about why you want to leave?” 

Stiles turned to him sharply and Peter gave him an unimpressed look. 

“The house at your back is full of Werewolves, Stiles. You’re lucky Derek was already gone before you said what you did, or he would’ve heard it along with everyone else.” 

He winced, having forgotten that little tidbit. He’d been with humans for so long that habits he’d picked up with the wolves seemed to have fallen by the wayside. It was crazy how much could change in just a few short months. 

Peter let out a groan while sitting down beside him on the stairs, same as Jackson had, but instead of leaning forward, he leaned back on his elbows, letting out a content sigh. 

“It’s a nice night, wouldn’t you say? Perfect Christmas weather. I do love a white Christmas, don’t you?” 

“Stop beating around the bush and spit it out,” Stiles insisted. It was too late to deny what he’d said, and he wanted the conversation to be over before Derek got back. 

“I don’t know why you think I have anything to say. You want to leave, that’s up to you. We aren’t going to stop you. Though I am curious as to why.” 

Stiles couldn’t tell him everything. He hadn’t told anyone, and he didn’t plan to. But he could tell him at least part of it. 

“Don’t you think I’ve taken enough from him?” Stiles asked. “Is it too much to ask for him to have a normal life? To not have to worry about someone coming for me again? To be able to be _happy_?” 

Peter let out the loudest laugh Stiles had ever heard. It startled him into silence, and went on for much longer than Stiles felt was necessary. Peter wiped one hand beneath his eyes, clearly exaggerating the humour of Stiles’ statement. 

“Let me tell you something about my nephew, little Spark.” Peter turned to look at him, eyes boring into Stiles’. “I have never seen my nephew so happy as I have since you came into his life.” 

He was sure Peter didn’t intend for those words to hurt, but they did. 

“Jackson wasn’t wrong, you know.” Peter looked back out at the yard, tilting his head slightly. “When you were taken, you weren’t here to see what it did to him. I’m sure you’ve come to your own conclusions, given his appearance and the state of the loft, but you weren’t _here_. You didn’t see what your departure did to him. If you left him again to go with Satomi, he would never stop you, but I don’t think you understand how much it would break him.” Peter’s gaze shifted to look at him. “Or you.” 

“Or me what?” Stiles asked. 

“You didn’t see yourself,” Peter said. “When you pulled up two weeks ago. When you came out of the car. You didn’t see the look on your face, the way you were holding him, how _bright_ your hands were shining. You didn’t see what being back with him did to you. And I think you need to consider how much it will hurt saying goodbye to him. Not only for him, but for you.” 

Stiles didn’t know what to say to that, so he settled on, “I can’t take anything else from him.”

“You’re not taking anything if he freely gives it to you.” Peter tilted his head again and hummed, suggesting he could hear something. “I would recommend thinking on it, little Spark. Long and hard. And I would suggest you discuss it with Derek before making any decisions. Because if you do this thinking it’s what’s best for him, you are going to be sorely mistaken and you will be well aware of that mistake when Mr. Whittemore hunts you down to drag you back before you destroy my nephew.” His lips quirked slightly. “They have a very interesting relationship, those two. Similar to yours with Whittemore, but different at the same time.” 

“He _is_ an acquired taste,” Stiles offered, needing the conversation to move away from Derek. 

“Indeed. Lucky for him, we all learn to tolerate things long enough to enjoy them.” Peter stood and let out another small sigh, wiping the seat of his pants. “Speak to my nephew, little Spark. Before you destroy yourself along with him.” 

Peter went back inside, but not before Derek was in the doorway. He looked confused, like he’d heard the tail-end of the conversation, but when Stiles just turned back to face the yard, Derek stayed in the doorway without asking what that was about. 

Stiles had time before Satomi left to think on it. He just wanted to make sure the decision he made wasn’t a selfish one, regardless of which way he landed. 

* * *

They moved back into the loft the day after Christmas. Most of the gifts from the pack had been new furniture, and Isaac, Derek and Boyd had spent a majority of the morning trying to fit a new sliding door at the entrance. A few other members of the pack had been tasked with trying to sort out the busted stairs leading to the second floor, but they were fixed up enough that it was possible to get up and down without too much trouble. Peter promised Stiles they’d look into getting another set in the new year. 

Stiles had felt guilty about Christmas, because he hadn’t gotten anyone anything, but in his defence, he hadn’t been back for very long and hadn’t really had time to think on it. 

He _did_ order Derek a new guitar, but it felt like a cop-out to get him the same gift two years in a row. Derek didn’t seem to think so and grinned when he opened the card to find a picture of the guitar that was on its way. 

Jackson bought Stiles earplugs, and promptly got smacked by Derek. 

It was weird for Stiles to see their friendship, because before he’d been taken, he and Jackson had been the close ones. Now, he could see how much Jackson had helped Derek while he was gone. He wasn’t jealous of it, because he was just happy _someone_ had been there for Derek, but it hurt to realize how much he’d missed out on and lost during his absence. 

Satomi’s pack was leaving on the twenty-ninth, which meant Stiles was quickly running out of time to speak to Derek and make his decision. The first night back in the loft, Stiles didn’t get much sleep, curled into Derek and listening to the familiar sounds of the building creaking and the wind blowing outside. Every time he moved, Derek’s grip on him tightened, the Werewolf rubbing his stubble against the top of Stiles’ head. 

Stiles didn’t know what to do, because he didn’t want to lose this, but he didn’t want to take anything else from Derek. Hadn’t he taken enough? Derek was in a good place now, wasn’t he? He had a pack, and friends, and he was happy. He didn’t need Stiles anymore.

But then he kept thinking back on Peter’s words. On how Derek had only been happy since Stiles. And how Stiles had looked when he’d seen Derek again after all those months apart. It was true that leaving Derek would kill him, Stiles had no illusions of that, but he just wanted to do what was best for Derek. 

When the Werewolf woke up the following morning, Stiles still hadn’t made up his mind, and he definitely hadn’t gotten any sleep. Derek grunted a good morning, nuzzling his head, and then released him. Stiles felt cold the second the other man moved away from him, rolling over so he could stand up. 

Derek moved sleepily to the dresser, scratching at his neck and yawning so wide Stiles felt like he could probably fit his entire fist in Derek’s mouth. He sat up while the Werewolf dug around for a shirt, yanking out a grey one before beginning to hunt for a pair of pants. A lot of his clothes had ended up at the Hale house and were downstairs waiting to be washed, so he was truly dealing with the bottom of the barrel right now. 

“Derek?” Stiles asked, sitting in the middle of the bed and picking at his nails while he watched the man wander around almost naked. Fuck, how hadn’t he noticed before how gone for him he was? Sure, he’d always found him attractive, but it was different. He found a lot of people attractive, but Derek was... he was _Derek_! 

When he received a grunt in response, Derek finally yanking out a pair of black jeans and squinting at them, like he was trying to determine if they were his or Stiles’, Stiles licked his lips and forced the words out. 

“I’m thinking of leaving.” 

Derek froze, back still to him. He was standing so perfectly still that Stiles thought he’d turned to stone. 

“I thought... I was thinking maybe I could go live with Satomi. In New Mexico. With her pack.” 

When Derek turned, it was so slowly that it almost didn’t seem to be in real time. He stared at Stiles for a moment, and it didn’t look like he was breathing. Then his eyes shifted rapidly from side to side, like he was thinking, mind going a mile a minute. Stiles saw his hands clenching in the material he was holding, saw his throat working, and he knew Derek thought this was him. 

He knew Derek thought Stiles didn’t trust him to keep him safe. 

That wasn’t it at _all_. 

“It’s not—Derek, it’s not about that.” Stiles raked a hand through his hair, annoyed that he couldn’t fully explain this. “I just want to stop taking things from you. All I’ve done since I got here was take, and I don’t want to do that anymore. I want you to be happy.” 

Derek was on the bed instantly, looking worried, and he pressed one hand insistently against Stiles’ chest. 

“ _You_ make me happy,” the action said, his hand pressing harder. 

“I just... I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life like this. Protecting me, worrying about me, being stuck with me.” 

Derek pounded against his own chest a few times, very hard. “ _I_ want that!” 

“Do you, though?” Stiles demanded. “Derek, look at what happened to you.” He motioned the loft with a vague wave of his hand. “I don’t want to do this to you. I don’t want you to get hurt anymore. I care about you. I don’t want to keep taking things from you. I want you to live a normal life.” 

There was a sharp exhale, and he could see Derek slowly beginning to panic. That wasn’t what Stiles wanted, he wasn’t trying to hurt him, he was trying to help him. He was trying to do this for both of them, before he asked for something he couldn’t ask for.

Before Derek found out what Stiles really wanted from him. 

Derek swallowed hard, eyes still shifting rapidly from side to side while he thought, and then he reached out and pointed one finger at Stiles, pressing it against his chest, a clear, “What do _you_ want?” 

“I want you to be happy,” Stiles admitted quietly. 

He jumped when Derek grabbed the front of his shirt and wrenched him forward, hugging him so tightly it was a little hard to breathe. He could feel Derek’s hot breath against his neck, making the hairs on the back of it rise on end, and the desperation rolling off him was so thick it almost choked him. 

Derek didn’t want him to go, but if it was what Stiles wanted, he wouldn’t stop him. If it was what Stiles needed, Derek would let him leave, even if it destroyed him. 

But it would destroy Stiles, too. And Stiles _knew_ that. But he felt selfish for staying. And just as selfish going. There was no easy solution to this problem, and he so badly wished he could go back and forget he’d ever realized he was in love with Derek. Because he really didn’t want to do that to him. 

Stiles exhaled sharply and pressed his forehead against Derek’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tightly. 

“If I stay, you have to promise me something,” Stiles said, voice muffled. “You have to _promise_ , Derek. I mean it. I fucking _mean_ it.” 

He got a grunt in response, Derek tightening his grip. 

“Don’t let me take more than you’re willing to give me. Understand? You’ve given me enough, and I need you to stop. I need you to put your foot down. So when the day comes where I ask you for something, and you can’t give it to me, you fucking don’t. Got it?” 

Derek tightened his grip further, Stiles legitimately unable to breathe now, and exhaled sharply against Stiles’ neck. 

It was as close to an, “I promise,” as he was going to get. 

He just hoped Derek kept it. 

* * *

Stiles could feel sweat pouring down his face while he concentrated, breathing hard and staring intently at what he was doing. His hands were shaking from the strain, and he knew he was probably pushing himself a bit too much given he’d only recently been given free reign of his own magic again, but he wanted things back to normal, dammit! 

Derek was standing behind him, hands on his shoulders, and every few seconds he would squeeze them. It was his own silent way of saying, “Focus... _focus_...” 

“Shut _up_ , Derek,” Stiles snapped, then grunted and let his hands drop when the train car slammed into the ground. He let out a sharp exhale and bent over, hands on his knees, gasping in air. He’d never really used levitation before. There was a lot of magic he’d never tried or even knew he could do, but he wanted his space back to normal. 

He couldn’t fix the wall, or the broken pillars or anything, but he _could_ fix the train cars and put them back where they belonged. 

He and Derek had gone out to buy some new cinder blocks and Stiles had put the one train back on top of them as if nothing had happened. Smoothing out all the large dents had taken longer and been much harder, but he managed to get the train car back to how it was, minus the windows. 

The other one was much more difficult, for some reason. Probably because it was just so much more damaged, and Stiles had already expelled an obscene amount of energy fixing up the first one. He should probably take a break and tackle the second train car tomorrow, but he was stubborn and he had some cake waiting for him upstairs, so he was going to work at that train car until it was perfect and back on its side where it belonged! 

Derek rubbed his back gently while Stiles stayed doubled over, running one hand smoothly up and down his spine. Stiles winced at the action, because it was something Gerard used to do, but he forced himself to remember it was something Derek used to do first. He didn’t want to lose what he had with Derek because Gerard had twisted things like comforting touches into something associated with imprisonment and forced servitude. 

They stayed like that for a moment, and when Stiles straightened and cleared his throat, ready to go again, Derek moved beside him and jerked his head towards the stairs. It was a clear request for him to take a break. 

“No, I want this done today,” Stiles insisted. “I want things back to how they used to be, like the past five months never happened. Okay?” 

Derek gave him an annoyed look and Stiles gave him one right back. When Derek motioned him up and down in a clear reference of Stiles’ weakened state, he just waved it off. 

“I’m fine, I’ve used magic under worse conditions.” 

That evidently wasn’t the right thing to say because Derek bared his teeth at him, then turned to stalk over to the train car. Stiles frowned, not understanding at first, but when Derek stood back as far as he could given Stiles hadn’t moved it too far away from the wall yet, and made a run for the train car, Stiles let out a shout when the Werewolf slammed into it, the entire thing rocking upwards off the ground slightly before crashing back down. 

“Oh come on,” Stiles insisted. “I just barely finished getting most of the dents out of it!” 

Derek ignored him, backed up, and made another running leap at the train car. 

“Derek, stop!” It wasn’t just that the train car would get damaged, it was that Stiles was sure it was painful to slam full force into solid metal. He didn’t want Derek hurting himself because Stiles was too stubborn to call it quits. 

It _had_ been a long day. Maybe he could just wait one more night and try again tomorrow. After all, wasn’t like he’d been spending any time out of the loft lately, so it wasn’t like he needed the train car back to how it used to be this exact second. 

When Stiles sighed and raked a hand through his hair, he paused when he realized he hadn’t heard Derek slam into the side of the train car. When he glanced over at him, Derek was frozen halfway between his starting point and the train car, still in the correct stance to ram into it. 

Stiles stared at him, then looked around, confused. When he looked back at Derek, it suddenly occurred to him what had happened and he stared down at his hands. 

“Okay, seriously? _How_ do I do that?” he demanded of them. They remained silent, like assholes, but Stiles _really_ wanted fucking answers.

Because apparently he’d just frozen time again. He wanted to know how to fucking control that one, it was very useful. Would’ve saved them a world of pain and anguish five months ago. And the portal! The portal he’d created for that one guy that Gerard had been after. He wanted to know how to make that, too! 

Why were all the useful spells impossible to do?! Okay that wasn’t fair, he knew that all the spells were useful in their own way, and he knew how to do a _lot_ of the useful ones, but sometimes he felt like the _best_ spells happened by accident. 

Wandering over to where Derek was, he stood right beside him and stared at the Werewolf. His face was screwed up in concentration, like he wanted to hit the train car at the right place with the right amount of force to tip it over. 

Stiles couldn’t help the small downturn of his lips when he noticed how patchy Derek’s beard was. He looked better than he had when Stiles had first gotten back, but not by much, and being able to stand there and stare at him without Derek knowing he was doing it just showed how much Stiles’ time away had affected him. 

He hated that. He hated that Derek had been so stressed and upset. It wasn’t his job to worry about him. Sure, his family had made that blood oath, but still. Stiles wanted him to be his own person, live his own life, be _happy_. He thought back to the previous morning, when Derek had insisted he wanted Stiles to stay, and how hard it was for Stiles to want to do that. 

Derek deserved happiness and Stiles felt like what the Werewolf had been through during his absence wasn’t something he ever wanted him to experience again. But then again, wouldn’t leaving have the same effect? Sure, Derek would know he was safe, and he’d know where he was, but maybe Derek didn’t know how to live without him anymore. Nobody could understand him like Stiles could, so it made sense Derek wouldn’t want him to go. 

It was all very frustrating and confusing, but Stiles wanted Derek to be happy. And if he was happy with Stiles around, well... he wasn’t going to take himself out of the picture. 

Stiles reached out with one hand, letting his fingers ghost along Derek’s face, being sure not to touch him. He would never touch him like that without his permission, but fuck, he loved this giant moron so much. He felt kind of stupid for not having realized it sooner. To be fair, he’d never loved anyone romantically before, so he supposed it made sense he hadn’t understood what he was feeling. 

“I love you,” Stiles said quietly, fingers hovering by Derek’s jaw. “I’m sorry that I do, but I do. And you’re always going to be my weak spot.” He really hoped they figured out what to do about Gerard before the man came for Derek, because if anything happened to him, Stiles would die. 

Die or go Void. 

Dying would probably be better, honestly. He wouldn’t want to subject the world to a Void. 

Letting his hand fall back to his side, Stiles sighed and shook his head, trying to remember how he’d unfrozen time the last time this had happened. But then he realized—he kind of hadn’t. Or he didn’t remember doing it. He’d shoved Jackson, which had made _him_ unfreeze, but he hadn’t actually done anything to the guards. 

Stiles figured it was geographical, though. He knew he hadn’t frozen the whole mansion the last time he’d done this, so it was probably isolated to the space he was in, which meant only Derek would be affected. So if he unfroze Derek, that was the only thing that mattered. 

“Okay,” Stiles said quietly, shifting a bit further to the side so he wouldn’t have an Alpha Werewolf barrel right into him at full force. Hesitating briefly, he placed his hand on Derek’s shoulder, and gave him a firm shake. 

His arm almost got ripped off since Derek had been mid-run at the time and Stiles stumbled and managed to let go of his shoulder, windmilling his arms and taking a few quick steps to stop from toppling over. 

Derek was evidently startled at finding Stiles suddenly so close and he ended up half-turning in his confusion, tripped over his own feet, and slammed sideways into the train car. The sound it made when it screeched across the ground made Stiles’ teeth ache, but it was a short-lived sound. 

When Derek managed to get himself back to his feet, he stared at Stiles, then motioned emphatically between the place he’d previously been standing and the new location. 

“Yeah, I can freeze time,” Stiles said with a shrug. “I mean, sometimes. Still working that out. Bottom line, don’t hurt yourself, I’ll listen to you and give it a break for now.” 

Derek was still looking back and forth between the two areas. Stiles had told him about freezing time with Jackson, since he told him everything, but this was the first time Derek had ever experienced it. To be fair, this was only the second time Stiles had ever done it. 

“Trust me, I’ll work on it. That one’s useful.” He walked over to Derek and slapped him in the back. “Hey, I also made a portal once! Not like, a really far one, but honestly I was scared I’d sent some dude into a hell dimension, so I was pretty relieved to find out it was just a ways out into a field.” 

Derek gave him a look and Stiles shrugged. They still hadn’t really spoken much about the specific things Stiles had done, but he knew they’d have to eventually. Stiles knew he’d done more bad than good while with Gerard, but every person he managed to save one way or another was worthwhile to him. He might not have helped all of them, but he’d tried. While that wasn’t comforting, and it was still something he was learning to live with, he knew focussing only on the bad wasn’t going to help him overcome it. 

Yes, he’d done bad things to protect Derek, but he’d also tried to do good whenever the opportunity presented itself. There had been a few people he’d helped escape one way or another. He’d hindered Gerard’s plans as much as he was able to without jeopardizing Derek’s life. 

When they headed for the stairs, Derek paused and tilted his head, then turned to the door. Stiles paused, and forced his heart out of his throat. Derek didn’t look concerned, which meant it was nobody to be scared of. Still, Stiles didn’t relax until he was positive, because the last thing he needed was to let his guard down. 

He felt the car pass through the barrier around their home and relaxed when he recognized all the signatures. He didn’t know why this specific group of people were together, but he knew he didn’t need to be worried about them. 

They stayed where they were on the stairs until the door was unlocked and pushed open. Peter smiled at them while leading the way inside, Jackson, Kira and Boyd right behind him, and Satomi taking up the rear. 

“Little Spark! You’re looking well. Derek been behaving?” 

Stiles saw Derek’s head roll slightly, and knew he’d rolled his eyes. “You know how he is. Huge pain in the ass, but I tolerate him.” 

“Indeed. Shall we head upstairs? I brought some treats for you.” 

“Thanks.” Stiles eyed them all while Boyd shut and locked the door firmly behind Satomi. He didn’t understand why they were all there, but he obediently turned to lead the way upstairs, Derek right on his heels. 

When they entered the loft, Peter set a box of assorted pastries on the table and Kira went to the kitchen to make some tea. She called back that she was making hot chocolate for herself and Stiles called that he’d prefer that over tea, so she promised to make him some. 

The others all sat around the table, chatting amiably and picking at the pastries once Stiles had taken the one he wanted. He couldn’t help but feel like they were trying to act natural. _Too_ natural. Like everything was fine and they were all just over for a visit. 

That, more than anything, made it explicitly clear to Stiles that they were _not_ just there for a visit and things were decidedly _not_ fine. 

He did his best to just keep his eyes on Derek, who was poking at a pastry like he’d specifically asked for a certain type and Peter had gotten him one he _didn’t_ want. He had an annoyed look on his face that was kind of adorable in a grumpy sort of way, and Stiles would’ve smiled any other time, except the stress was a bit much right now. 

Kira came back with the hot chocolates first, then the teas, and took her seat. Stiles noticed that he was sandwiched between Derek and Jackson. Kira was on Derek’s other side, with Boyd beside her. Satomi was across from him and Peter was beside her, like they were trying to make sure he felt surrounded by safety. The fact that it was _these_ people specifically here right now was definitely cause for concern. 

He waited, feeling more and more tense by the second. The thing that sucked was that everyone in the room _knew_ it. Because they were all Weres of some variety, so they could smell the nerves rolling right off him. 

Finally, Satomi sipped her tea, placed the mug on the new table, and folded her hands together. 

“How have you been doing, Stiles?” 

“Fine,” he replied immediately. “Great. Awesome. Super. Why?” 

Satomi nodded once, then looked at Peter briefly before facing him once more. “I understand there have been some challenges, and we’ve been working through them as best we can together. I know you rely a lot on Derek, and I think it’s very good that you have a strong support network.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, because he didn’t know what was coming. That gave him absolutely no clues as to what was coming! 

“How’s your magic? Coming back relatively well?” 

“It’s fine,” Stiles insisted. “Works okay. I don’t think I’m back at full power just yet, but close. I’m doing all right, I’d say.” He glanced at Derek then, as if wanting confirmation, but Derek was looking at Satomi while he picked away at the buttery crust of the pastry he had in front of him. 

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Satomi was still holding her mug in both hands, but she released it then and bent down. Stiles frowned when she brought her purse up onto the table, watching him before she opened it. “I would very much like to try something with you, Stiles. I spoke to both Peter and Derek about this, because I wasn’t going to exacerbate a problem, but I have a theory I would like to test. I brought the people I did today because they have all, in some fashion, been a source of comfort to you. I want to ensure you understand that you are safe, and this is in no way an attempt to control you. If you say no to my proposal, we will never speak of it again.”

That didn’t sound good. The only reason Stiles didn’t immediately bolt was because he knew Derek and Peter would never do anything that would cause him harm. And with how tense Jackson was beside him, he could tell the other man was ready to throw himself in front of him if need be. That, at least, was comforting. 

“Okay,” Stiles agreed slowly. 

Satomi watched him for a moment longer, nodded once, then opened her purse. The second she pulled something out of it, Stiles leapt to his feet, chair clattering loudly as it toppled over backwards and he backpedalled quickly from the table. 

His heart was slamming in his chest and he could feel a cold sweat breaking out across every inch of skin. 

Jackson had shifted slightly, like he was going to stand to protect him, but he managed to keep his seat and just growled low in his throat, clearly unhappy with Stiles’ reaction. Derek looked like he hated seeing Stiles so scared, but he didn’t react otherwise. The others didn’t move, just watched him while Stiles backed away.

Because Satomi had just pulled out cuffs he was very, _very_ familiar with.

“Why do you have those?” he asked, feeling somewhat angry and betrayed. Shadows were slowly inching their way up his hands, but he also had bolts of electricity sparking between his fingers. 

Evidently, that was too much for Derek, because he got to his feet, one hand held out to calm Stiles, and approached like he was nearing a wild animal. He reached out and brought the same hand up to Stiles’ face, brushing his thumb along his cheek, and then took one of Stiles’ hand into his other one, bringing it to his own chest. 

“Trust me,” his look said. 

And Stiles did. He really, truly did. But why the _fuck_ did Satomi have those cuffs? 

“These are very expensive,” Satomi said, voice low and calm, like she wanted to ensure she didn’t startle him. “They are specialized. Cuffs created for the Spark, or any other magic user deemed to be problematic. I purchased them after our last conversation because of something that you said.” 

“What?” Stiles asked. 

Satomi placed them on the table at the spot where Stiles had been sitting, right beside his half-eaten pastry and his hot chocolate. 

“Stiles, during one of our many conversations since your return, you advised that you escaped because you were able to burn away the restrictors on your wrists. That, in and of itself, is unheard of but then again, I also acknowledge that your level of magic is something I am not intimately familiar with. The previous restrictor placed on you when you were a child was done by another Spark, so it makes sense you wouldn’t have been able to burn that away. These ones, done by a less than talented Witch, would be easy to break through. _If_ ,” she said, eying him intently, “you hadn’t been wearing these.” She tapped the cuffs. 

“I told you, one of them was loose,” Stiles insisted. “It wasn’t closed all the way, I only had one on.” 

“But you confirmed you’d burned them off before that evening, with both in place, didn’t you?” 

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it. Because he _had_ done that. He’d done it many times while practising for his eventual escape. He could burn the restrictors off whenever he wanted if he focussed hard enough, but he couldn’t do much more because the cuffs drained the rest of his magic away. 

“I have a theory I would like to test,” Satomi said, one hand still on the cuffs. “Something I believe, if I am right, may provide some peace of mind for you. If I am wrong, well, no harm done. But I will _only_ do this if you agree, Stiles. We are not Hunters, and we are not bad people. If you do not want to try this, I will put these away and dispose of them in a safe manner. We will never speak of this again. But please understand that nobody in this room would have agreed to this if they believed anyone else present wanted to cause you harm. I discussed this with Peter and Derek, and then Peter discussed it in turn with Kira, Jackson and Boyd. Parrish was also consulted, but he was not available to join us today. We do not want to cause you harm or discomfort, we merely want to ascertain if my theory is correct.” 

Stiles swallowed hard while he stared at the cuffs. Five months he’d worn those on his wrists. Five months of feeling the constant drain of magic. The weakness, the fatigue, the stomach pains. Five months he’d endured that. He’d only just gotten them off, and now they were asking him to put them back on? 

“Why?” he asked. “What theory do you have?” 

“I’m afraid it’s one of those blind tests,” Peter cut in before Satomi could answer. “The more you know, the less effective of a test this will be.” 

Stiles grit his teeth, still staring at the cuffs. He couldn’t think of any reason why they would be asking him to do something like this, except if there was a damn good reason. Derek especially.

Actually... Jackson especially. 

Stiles glanced at him, and he could tell Jackson wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t look concerned. More upset and angry that this was being suggested, but not entirely opposed to it, either. Jackson knew better than anyone else in this room what being stripped of a part of himself felt like. He’d lived with a collar on for eight years, he knew the price was high for what they were asking him to do. 

But even he wasn’t against it. He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t opposed, either. 

Letting out a slow breath, Stiles patted lightly at Derek’s chest where his hand was still pressed over his heart, and nodded once. 

“Okay. Okay.” 

Satomi inclined her head slightly and Derek let his hands slide away. Stiles clenched his own into fists and moved up to the table. He didn’t sit back down though, he just stood at his spot, staring down at the cuffs. 

When Satomi held her hands out, Stiles exhaled sharply once, and then obediently extended his arms. She wrapped her fingers around either wrist and he grunted when she placed the restrictors on. Her magic was much stronger than Kate’s, and the bands hurt going on. 

“If at any time you want to stop,” Peter said seriously, Stiles’ eyes flicking to him, “you say so and we’ll stop. This isn’t like the Argents where you don’t have a choice.” 

Stiles nodded again, rubbing at his left wrist while staring down at the cuffs. When Derek reached for one, Stiles stopped him.

“No,” he said quietly, not looking at him. “Not you.” 

“Well I’m not doing it,” Jackson snapped, shifting his chair away and throwing his hands up. “Fuck those things, I know how much they suck.” 

Everyone was silent for a moment, then Boyd stood up and moved over beside Stiles. He patted Derek once on the shoulder to make him shift back a little, then grabbed one of the cuffs. Stiles obediently held one hand out and Boyd lined it up how it was supposed to go and snapped it into place. Stiles made a sound when the spikes broke skin and Derek was hovering on his other side instantly, but he lightly elbowed him out of his personal space. 

Just with the one cuff on, he already felt drained and tired. And sick. He was also feeling a little bit like he was going to panic and he forced himself to stay in the moment and not slip into his own mind. The last thing he needed was to end up with his Void right now for a test. 

Boyd waited until Stiles was ready for the other cuff. After a few moments, he obediently held up his other hand and Boyd snapped the second one into place. 

Stiles wanted a fucking _nap_ , now. After all the magic he’d used earlier, to have this happen was just asking for him to keel over backwards. 

Apparently, it was noticed, because Boyd grabbed his chair and righted it, helping Stiles ease down into it. He placed both hands on the table, staring down at the familiar cuffs and hating the sight of them. Derek took his seat once more and Jackson shifted a bit closer, looking unhappy but supportive. 

Satomi had her phone out and Stiles noticed Peter had shifted closer, the two of them looking down at the app he knew was connected to the cuffs. 

“I know you’re not feeling your best,” Satomi said gently. “I know this is unpleasant, given what you’ve been through. But I need you to tell me if this feels familiar. I need to know what your baseline for the cuffs is.” 

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, reaching for his hot chocolate and wrapping his hands around the warm mug. He felt cold, and not only because it was still snowing outside. The others having come in with sweaters and regular outwear sometimes made him forget that it was still winter outside. Fucking Werewolves.

Then again, he knew this cold wasn’t about the weather outside. 

“What you’re feeling right now, is that how you usually felt? Is this the setting they used when they had the cuffs on you?” 

Stiles stared down at his hands with a frown, trying to figure out how he was feeling. Yeah, this sucked after a few weeks without the cuffs on, but this was... mild. He felt like he could easily burn the restrictors off and do magic right now. 

“No, it’s too low,” he admitted. “Do you want me to burn off the restrictors?” 

Satomi and Peter shared a look before glancing back down at the phone. Peter was the one who spoke. 

“Not yet.” 

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Can I take these off?” 

“In a moment,” Satomi said. “Unless you want to stop, in which case, we will stop.” 

He felt like shit, but nowhere near anything like when he was with the Argents. And it didn’t seem like whatever they were testing had been tested yet so he shrugged one shoulder. 

“I’m okay for now.” 

“I’m going to increase the power,” Satomi told him, watching him closely. “Please tell me when it becomes too much.” 

“Okay, but fair warning, if it gets too high, I pass out.” 

Derek turned to Satomi sharply and she held a calming hand out towards him. 

“We will not go that far. When you begin to feel uncomfortable, or when it is close to what you were used to feeling, please let me know.” 

“Okay,” he agreed again. 

He kept his gaze on his hands, mostly so he wouldn’t focus on anyone around him. He didn’t want to watch Satomi’s finger move upwards because he didn’t want that to influence how he was feeling. He just stared down at his hands and focussed on how much magic he felt being pulled. 

Slowly, very slowly, he started feeling colder. Still not what it was like with the Argents, but uncomfortable in the sense that he wished he had more layers on. He’d often used his blanket with the Argents for a couple hours after the cuffs went back on, but eventually he got used to the cold, so he didn’t worry about this feeling. 

“Anything?” Peter asked. 

“I can feel it,” Stiles confirmed, “but it’s not what I’m used to.” 

“Please let me know if it’s uncomfortable or becomes too much for you,” Satomi repeated, sounding pleased, for some reason. 

“I will,” he said again. 

Another silence followed. Stiles started feeling a little more tired, a little less energetic, and when it hit a certain point, he recognized the feeling. 

“Stop.” 

Derek snarled, as if worried Satomi hadn’t obeyed fast enough, but the second Stiles spoke the words, he felt the drain stop. Well, not stop, but level. This was what it had felt like the last time he’d had the cuffs on. Uncomfortable, tiring, cold, but something he was used to. No longer painful. 

“Please bear with it a moment longer,” Satomi said gently. “Just long enough to confirm if you can burn the restrictors off.” 

Stiles reached up with one hand to rub at his forehead, feeling sick. He kind of wanted to drink his hot chocolate, because sugar and all, but he didn’t want to mess up whatever test they were doing. 

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“Please just try once,” Satomi said. “Just once, and then we will turn this off.” 

Stiles brought his other hand up to rub at his face fully, then dragged them down along his skin before staring at his cuffed wrists. He closed his eyes and let out a small breath, then pulled at the magic in his chest. It hurt with the restrictors, _and_ the cuffs. Much more than it ever had with Kate, but Satomi was a much more powerful Witch. 

Still, he did his best. He pushed against the bands as hard as he could, depleting his reserves in an attempt to burn away the restrictors. He could feel his heart beginning to pound in his chest, and he really, _really_ wanted to take a nap. Or take the cuffs off. Fuck, he wanted to take them off right _now_ , but he forced himself to keep pushing. 

He could feel the magic crackling beneath the cuffs, pushing and burning at the restrictors, making pain lance up his arms and then back down as the attempts at magic were sucked out of him by the cuffs. With one final push, Stiles jumped at the loud crack when the bands were burned off. It was a much more violent reaction than he was used to, but he figured it was because he’d had to try harder with Satomi’s restrictors than Kate’s. 

When he opened his eyes, Satomi looked pleased, and Peter looked fucking _delighted_. Derek looked like he didn’t know how to feel yet but he immediately reached for the closest wrist, undoing the cuff and removing it while pulling at some of Stiles’ pain. Jackson was doing the exact same thing with the other. 

Stiles’ wrists were bruising slightly, and there was blood from the spikes, but the restrictors were gone. Satomi reached forward to press her hands over his wrists, healing the wounds as best she could given they were so fresh. He knew healing magic took a lot out of anyone who used it, even someone as powerful as her, so he appreciated it. 

“How do you feel?” Kira asked, eyes shifting back and forth between his wrists and his face. 

“Fine, I guess,” Stiles said, rubbing at his left one and wincing. The wounds may have been healed, and the wolves on either side of him may have pulled at his pain, but the phantom wounds left behind would take longer to dissipate. “Do I get to know what’s going on now?” 

“You don’t need to worry about Gerard Argent,” Satomi said. 

Stiles paused in his rubbing and Derek sat up straighter beside him, like he knew what was coming, and desperately wanted Satomi to say it. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Stiles, what level do you think I had the cuffs at?” Satomi asked. “When you felt like it was reminiscent of your time with the Argents. How high do you think I had them at where you felt like you couldn’t handle anything more?” 

He shrugged one shoulder, grabbing his mug in both hands and warming them against the ceramic. “I don’t know. Like, seventy?” He knew Gerard had started relatively low, because it had taken a while for Stiles to pass out the first time he’d started increasing the power. Stiles estimated that he passed out around maybe eighty, which meant seventy was probably the highest he could comfortably wear the cuffs. 

“You’re a little off,” Peter said, amused. 

Stiles frowned. “Eighty?” 

Satomi didn’t respond. She just turned her phone around, still open on the app, and Stiles looked at the metre on the side. 

It was at ninety-seven. 

_Ninety-seven_.

Stiles just stared at it, his mind slowly trying to recognize what that meant. His baseline was three percent below the maximum setting. His _baseline_ where he could burn off restrictors beneath the cuffs put there by a Witch much more powerful than Kate was legitimately three percent below the very top setting that existed for this product. 

The whole time Stiles had been there, suffering and weak, he’d been almost at the top and he hadn’t noticed. 

But then... how had he passed out at the beginning? Because it was impossible for three more percent to have that much of an impact on him, so how was it he’d passed out that one time? 

It took him a few seconds to figure out why that had happened. Because he’d slowly, slowly been increasing the power level. Stiles hadn’t really noticed, because every day sucked and he always felt weak, cold and tired, but he must’ve done things every day that made Gerard realize he was acclimating to the level he was at. 

Maybe when Stiles had first arrived, he _was_ at sixty. Maybe back then, going to seventy or eighty had knocked him out because it was too much. But what if, as the days passed, suddenly sixty wasn’t strong enough. So Gerard had bumped him up to seventy. And then eighty. And then ninety. 

What if Gerard would’ve had him at one-hundred, and then could no longer hold back his magic? 

“These aren’t strong enough,” Stiles finally said, staring down incredulously at the cuffs in the middle of the table. “They’re not strong enough to hold back my magic anymore.” 

Satomi smiled, reaching out one hand to squeeze Stiles’. “Gerard could barely contain you,” she agreed. “He was counting on breaking you before you noticed the cuffs weren’t doing their job anymore.” 

Stiles also realized that he’d been using magic _all day_. He’d been working on the train cars downstairs, so he was _already_ deficient in magic, but he’d still managed to burn away the restrictors and use magic, however slight, while wearing the cuffs. 

“He has nothing,” Stiles realized. “We keep the pack safe, and he has nothing.” 

Satomi looked the happiest Stiles had ever seen her. “He has nothing,” she confirmed. “The next time he comes for you, he won’t be able to stop you.” 

Stiles was starting to understand why so many people were after him. 

Because if he could counteract the one thing in the world that had been designed specifically _for_ him while he wasn’t even at full strength, then he truly _was_ fucking unstoppable. 

Gerard Argent better not fucking come for him, because Stiles was going to wipe the floor with him. 

* * *

It was New Year’s day when he felt them pass through his barrier into town. He was sitting at the new and improved dining table, eating a piece of toast with peanut butter on it and staring at Derek while the Werewolf strummed his new guitar on the couch when the sensation ripped right through him and he dropped his breakfast. 

Derek looked up, and was on his feet instantly. Stiles didn’t know what he looked like, but he expected he looked as terrified as he felt in that moment, because a Hunter had just driven into his territory and the Argents knew where the loft was. 

Despite the knowledge that the cuffs weren’t strong enough to contain him, it was hard for him to erase five months of captivity and he found himself beginning to hyperventilate a little bit at the idea of Gerard showing up and threatening Derek’s life to get him back into his little cell in Kentucky. He didn’t want that. He was never letting that be his life again. 

His hands shook while he struggled to pull out his phone, and Derek was beside him instantly, brushing his hands aside gently but quickly, and pulled the phone out for him, holding it out to him. Stiles took it and went to his contacts, quickly hitting Peter’s name and putting it to his ear. 

_“Little Spark, you’re my first call of the—”_

“Hunters just crossed the border.” His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. 

_“Stay inside, I’ll call the pack.”_ Peter hung up. 

Stiles lowered the phone and stared down at it, his hand shaking so badly he risked dropping it. Derek had stalked across the loft, neck of his guitar gripped in one hand, and was looking out one of the large windows. Stiles raised his gaze to watch him while the Werewolf stared intently at the world outside.

He hated this. He hated being what he was, he hated having to hide behind Derek and the pack all the time, he hated being this all-powerful _thing_ that couldn’t even protect itself. And the thing that sucked the most was that he knew he should be _able_ to protect himself! 

His mother might not have survived her own encounter with Gerard Argent, but she’d been weak and recovering at the time from a multitude of events that had thoroughly drained her. No one really spoke about how his mother had died, but it was entirely possible that Gerard hadn’t actually pulled the trigger on her. It was more likely that she’d used so much magic in her attempts to defend herself and Talia—and eventually Michael—that she ran out completely and just... 

Stiles knew that he was going to be powerful. He knew that what happened with his mother was a special circumstance, and that he was formidable and would one day be able to do _anything_ , but he felt like the problem in this case was the difference in knowledge and confidence. 

His mother had gotten where she was in her own time. Slowly, at her leisure. But the problem was that she’d had the luxury of being hidden while she’d learned how to defend herself. She’d had so much time to hone her skills, live her life, be someone _normal_. 

Stiles’ existence was known the moment he was born. His mother was taken from him, he was moved around and kept isolated, his father was taken from him, and then he was placed in another more comfortable prison with a guard standing watch. 

And he didn’t fault Derek and the others for his new prison. He understood why it was necessary now. Realistically, he didn’t consider it a prison anymore, but he felt like being a Spark was a prison in itself. Nobody could be trusted, everyone was a threat, and he couldn’t ever be left on his own. 

Not until he was at the same level as his mother had been before she’d saved the world. 

Stiles was _tired_. 

He was tired of being a scared little boy. 

He was tired of always running away.

He was tired of having to hide behind Derek, or Peter, or the pack in general. He was just so God damn _tired_. 

Every time someone came for him and he hid behind Derek, he felt like it was just reaffirming to the person coming that he was weak. He was small, and scared, and needed protecting. He couldn’t _do_ this on his own. 

And he fucking _hated_ that. 

He _wasn’t_ weak. He wasn’t a little boy. He was a fucking grown ass adult now. And a Spark, to boot. The most powerful magical being on the damn _planet_. He didn’t want to let people push him around like this anymore. 

No, he wasn’t going to _let_ people push him around like this anymore. If he had to go full dark on them—without going Void—then fuck it all, that was what he’d do!

He was an adult! He was a Spark! He was not some weak and cowering little boy that people could manipulate! 

Stiles tightened his grip around his phone until he was sure his hands had stopped trembling. He could still feel the terror of his captivity gnawing away at his insides, but he forced himself to exhale sharply and then stood, shoving his phone back into his pocket. 

Derek turned at the sound, and then immediately moved across the open space to block Stiles’ path out of the loft, raising his eyebrows at him. 

“I’m done hiding behind people,” Stiles insisted, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. His insides were twisting uncomfortably, and he was positive he still reeked of fear, but he couldn’t stay inside behind this locked door with his loyal guard watching over him. 

If he did, it just meant Gerard would know Stiles could be broken. It meant he’d be proving that he was scared of him. And he _was_. 

He fucking _was_ scared of him. So fucking scared. But if Gerard knew that, then he won. The only way for Stiles to move forward and attempt to prove to everyone that he truly _was_ a force to be reckoned with was for him to stand on his own two feet.

Even when he was scared. Even when he was exhausted. Even when all he wanted to do was curl up in bed with Derek and never see the outside world again. 

Stiles wasn’t going to let Gerard win. Not this time. He might be scared, but he was going to stand up to the asshole who’d taken so much from him and fucking _destroy_ him.

Even if he was trembling the entire time. 

“I’m supposed to be this fearsome, all-powerful magical entity, right?” Stiles asked, forcing the words out and working really hard at sounding cocky instead of uncertain. “Well, I’m gonna start acting like it.” 

Derek was still giving him the eyebrows. Stiles let out a slow breath, then crossed his arms resolutely over his chest, and eyebrowed right back. 

Evidently, Derek wasn’t expecting that, because he kind of did a weird double-take before the corners of his lips turned up slightly, like he was amused. Or maybe he was proud. 

Stiles didn’t want to think about Derek being proud of him, he hadn’t done anything worth his praise, and he certainly didn’t want it. Not right now, when the man he so feared was coming to his doorstep. 

Despite Derek’s amusement—or pride—he still didn’t move from his spot blocking the door. They stood staring each other down for a few moments, the creak of the building and wind outside the only sounds. 

Finally, Stiles couldn’t wait anymore. If he didn’t do it now, he would never be able to do it ever again. “Please,” he insisted, voice much quieter than he’d intended. “Let me do this.” 

Derek’s head tilted slightly, and his eyebrows lowered into a small frown. His eyes raked over every inch of Stiles’ face, inspecting it thoroughly, like he was looking for something. It seemed to take considerable effort, but after a few moments longer, Derek uncrossed his arms, slowly shifted aside, and unlocked the loft door. 

Stiles exhaled sharply, trying not to let a semi-hysterical laugh escape him. He hadn’t actually expected that to work, and now that it had, the terrified part of his brain was _really_ wishing it hadn’t. 

“Thank you,” he said softly, reaching out with one hand and touching the handle. He knew Derek noticed his hesitation, but he didn’t stop him when Stiles slid the door open. 

It was hard, but he really appreciated that Derek was trusting him to make his own decisions. That he was trusting him to know what he needed to do right now to move forward. People wanted him to come to terms with what he’d done, and the only way to do that was to face the man who’d forced him to do them to begin with. 

Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t know Derek was going to be right on his ass, but the fact that he was legitimately letting him head down the stairs and potentially out the door only reaffirmed that Derek was always going to let him make the decisions Stiles thought were the best ones for him. He might not like the decisions Stiles made, but he respected him to make the ones he had to. 

He also suspected there was some comfort in the knowledge of the cuffs not being able to contain him, but regardless, considering Stiles hadn’t been home for very long, it was huge that Derek was letting him stand on his own.

Probably helped that the pack was on its way, but still!

When they got downstairs, Stiles stared at the door with so much intensity he was pretty sure he might have started hyperventilating again. Derek’s fingers touched his elbow lightly and he started, turned to glance at him, then looked back at the door. 

Steeling himself, he reached out and turned the first lock. When the loud ‘click’ sounded, he kept his fingers there for a moment before moving down to the next one. He saw Derek make some kind of aborted move out of the corner of his eye, like he was going to stop him, but had forced himself not to. 

“Don’t worry,” Stiles insisted, turning to him while unlocking the last bolt. “You can stick as close as you want. Not like I’m gonna complain.” 

He had the common sense to inch open the door and look out into the open area before stepping out. So far he didn’t see anything, but he knew if a Hunter was coming, they were coming for him, so it would only be a matter of time. 

Derek followed him out and while they exited the building fully, they didn’t move very far away from it. Derek was standing a little to the left of him, pressed almost right up against his back, but Stiles relished his presence. Derek was always a strong wall at his back, and the comfort he provided was like nothing anyone else could ever do. 

Stiles’ gaze shifted to the right when he heard car tires squeal and moments later, Peter was rounding the corner at breakneck speed. He slammed on the brakes in their little front lot and was the first one out of the car, giving Stiles and Derek an incredulous look while Jackson and Cora opened their doors. 

“What part of _stay inside_ was unclear to you?” 

Fists clenched at his sides, Stiles lifted his chin defiantly and said, “If I don’t face him head on, he’ll think he won.” Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not going to let him bully me into hiding. I’m going to blow his car up with my mind.” 

“I’m down with murder,” Jackson said, slamming the back door and moving up alongside Peter with Cora a few steps behind him. “Teach Hunters to stay out of our territory.” 

“This isn’t a good idea,” Peter insisted, eyes shifting to Derek, as if for backup. “They could come at us from any angle.” 

“I am _not_ ,” Stiles said through gritted teeth, “letting that _asshole_ bully me into being afraid of him. Not when he can’t even contain me. I’m going to give him a reason to be afraid of _me_.” 

Peter still didn’t look convinced, but apparently he knew there was no arguing. If Derek had let him out of the loft, clearly Peter didn’t stand a chance with getting him back inside. Though Stiles _did_ notice the older man relax somewhat as more members of the pack began to arrive.

Stiles was surprised when even Melissa showed up, looking particularly badass with her shotgun and standing beside Scott like a woman ready for action. Tara was there too, having arrived with Parrish. Stiles was actually beginning to suspect she was going to be moving up to Beacon Hills.

Honestly, he wouldn’t be opposed to it. She’d been talking about her shitty worklife back home in Nashville, and she was an amazing person. If they had room on the force here in Beacon Hills, Stiles definitely wouldn’t mind having a Witch around. He really liked her, and he wanted her to be happy. She deserved it after what she’d done for him. 

The pack was tense and silent while they waited. 

It seemed to take an eternity for the Hunters to show up, but when they finally did, Stiles frowned. 

“There’s only one car,” Boyd said quietly from Derek’s other side. 

Derek grunted in response, clearly having noticed the same thing. Which was also what Stiles had realized. 

The sun was at _just_ the right angle that it was reflecting off the windshield so that Stiles couldn’t see who was there. He hoped it wasn’t Kate, because he was going to grab Melissa’s shotgun and shoot her himself. Fuck that bitch and what she’d done to Derek. He didn’t care what she’d done to him, it was what she’d done to _Derek_ that he wanted to punish her for. 

The car rolled just a little further into the open area and then the engine turned off. For a few tense seconds, nothing happened, and Stiles was ready to throw up a shield if bullets started flying. That turned out not to be necessary, because the driver’s side door opened and two hands appeared above it, evidencing they were empty. 

“I’m not armed.” 

Stiles frowned, because he recognized that voice. And, sure enough, when the figure in the car stepped out, he was looking at Chris Argent. 

A very dishevelled and not-great-looking Chris Argent. 

He was moving slowly, keeping his hands high above his head, and he moved out from behind the car door. 

“I’m not armed,” he said again. 

“Yes, we can see that,” Peter sneered, though not half as aggressively as Stiles had expected given there was an Argent exceptionally close to his family. He did flash his eyes at him though. “But you’re not the only one in the vehicle, are you?” 

Chris’ gaze went to Melissa, like he was mostly worried about her weapon as opposed to the multitude of Supernatural beings in the lot with him. Stiles supposed the man was just looking at the one thing that could hurt them the fastest.

Then again, that was probably Stiles, but Chris had never seen him at his best. 

Chris turned then, hands still raised, and jerked his head slightly. The passenger-side door opened and hands appeared in the same manner as Chris before Allison stepped out. She looked defiant, like this entire thing was beneath her, but Stiles could tell she was freaked out. 

One of Derek’s hands had risen to grip at Stiles’ closest arm, like he was ready to yank him back if necessary, but considering who these people were, the Alpha was surprisingly calm behind him. 

When Stiles glanced over his shoulder at him, Derek was the only Hale who wasn’t wolfed out. Even his eyes were still green, and Stiles could see the barest hint of a furrow between his brows. Derek obviously knew who Chris and Allison were—or, Chris, at any rate—but he didn’t look particularly _worried_. Unhappy, yes. 

But not worried. 

“We’re not here to cause any trouble,” Chris said, and when he spoke, his eyes were on Derek. “We don’t mean you and yours any harm. We came because we had nowhere else to go.” 

“You come seeking _sanctuary_?” Cora demanded, looking furious, eyes gold and fangs in her mouth. “After what your family did? What your _father_ did?!” She took a step forward and Peter hastily grabbed her arm, yanking her back, as if worried for her to get too close despite Chris and Allison clearly being unarmed. She pulled against his grip, which just had him wrap his arm around her middle to keep her back, even as she continued to speak, her voice getting louder and louder with each word. “Your father _murdered_ our parents! Stiles’ _mother_! Your sister _kidnapped_ my brother, and _cursed_ him! And then your dad fucking _killed_ my _sister_! Then you and yours come here, almost _kill_ Lydia, nearly _killed_ Derek and Jackson, and _kidnapped_ Stiles for _five months_! And you have the _nerve_ ,” she screamed, Peter physically restraining her and half-lifting her off the ground, “the **_nerve_** to come here asking for _sanctuary_?!” She spat angrily at her own feet, which were half-off the ground from Peter’s hold. “Fuck you! Get the fuck out of here!” 

“I told you this was a dumb idea,” Allison insisted. She was going for annoyed, but Stiles could hear the thread of fear in her voice. “Dad, let’s just go.” 

Stiles wanted to say something. He wanted to come to their defence. 

He didn’t like this. 

Looking at them, at the way Chris was still respectfully keeping his distance, eyes on Derek. The way his hair looked dishevelled and his beard had grown out. The tattered state of his clothes. 

At how Allison’s hands were trembling slightly, raised above her head. Her skin pale, her hair greasy. 

He didn’t like seeing them like this, because... 

Because he knew.

He _knew_ that he’d only really escaped because of Chris and Allison’s actions. He knew that Chris had told him about the Chameleon dying so that Stiles would know he could escape without a threat to Derek’s life. He knew Allison had purposefully left one cuff undone so he could use his magic more easily. He knew they’d both orchestrated their conversation in such a way that they could reveal the alarm code to him, trusting his eidetic memory, which he’d mentioned to Allison, to help him keep it at the forefront for his escape. 

He wanted to say something. This wasn’t right. They were running, same as him. They’d risked their lives for him, and it didn’t feel right to send them away. 

Stiles opened his mouth, words on the tip of his tongue, but before he even got a single one out, Derek’s hand left his arm and he held it up in a motion for them to wait. Chris paused, half-turned back to the car, and Allison stood still as a statue while they waited for the Alpha’s verdict. 

Instead of giving a verdict, Derek just motioned the car in inquiry. Stiles didn’t understand until Chris turned back to it and nodded once. The back door opened, and quite honestly, he did _not_ expect the two people who stepped out. 

“Alex,” Jackson said, startled, almost taking a step forward before stopping himself. “Rose.” 

“Hey Jack.” It was the Metamorph from Harris’ mansion. She was holding the eight-year old Elemental’s hand, the two of them looking a little worse for wear, but definitely better than Stiles remembered them. “It’s been a while.” 

“We picked them up just outside Denver,” Chris said quietly. “They were already heading this way, so we figured we’d give them a lift.” 

“Wait, you were coming here?” Stiles asked, surprised. 

Alex looked just as surprised by his reaction. “Of course. A lot of people are coming here.” 

Stiles stared at her. “Why?” 

“Because word is this is the safest place in the United States for people like us.” She winced, then motioned herself and Rose, sweeping one hand out to include him and Jackson. “People who are coveted.” 

“You heard that?” Peter asked skeptically. “From who?” 

Alex was still looking at Stiles when she said, “From everyone.” 

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Stiles insisted. “I haven’t even... you’re acting like this is about me, but I haven’t been here for months. I was—”

“Captured. We know.” Alex wrapped her arm around Rose when the little girl let her hand go and hugged into the woman’s side instead. “The people you saved are the ones spreading the word. That’s why everyone is heading this way.” 

“Saved?” Stiles asked, feeling like someone had just punched a hole right through his chest. “I didn’t save _anyone_ , I was—”

“You really don’t know, do you?” Chris asked, Stiles’ gaze shooting back to him. The Hunter was staring at him, eyes slowly searching his face as if for the lie. Evidently, he couldn’t find it, because he said, a little stunned, “You have no idea how many people you saved.” He shot a glance at Allison before turning back to Stiles and licking his lips. “Stiles, you were kept weak, and you were a prisoner, and my father threatened Derek’s life every chance he got. You did what he asked, but only just. You stopped people from dying when you could help it, when you were present for injustice, and whenever my father went looking for someone, you almost _always_ found them first. And you saved them.” 

That wasn’t... 

Chris was acting like the blood on his hands wasn’t there. He was acting like all Stiles had done the entire time he’d been with the Argents was save people from them, but he _hadn’t_! 

Sure, there had been a few, but there hadn’t been as many as Chris was suggesting. 

Stiles remembered the few he’d saved, of course he did. He remembered Caleb, the boy in the middle of farmland with the Warlock father that he’d teleported away. He remembered Sarah, a woman out in the suburbs with her wife and twin boys that he’d turned invisible while the Hunters had been tearing apart the house looking for her since Kate hadn’t been there to help. He remembered Jonas, an elderly man who lived alone in an apartment in the downtown core that he’d warned away from his home the moment he’d noticed the man giving them strange looks while heading back for the building. 

Of course he remembered all these people. He remembered the ones he’d managed to save, but there were so many more that he hadn’t. So many others that had died or been taken because he hadn’t wanted to lose Derek. 

“Not all of them,” Stiles said quietly.

“But enough,” Chris stressed. “Stiles, you saved _enough_.” 

“Nobody can fault you for those you didn’t,” Alex insisted. “We all have our weaknesses.” As if to prove her point, she hugged Rose tighter into her side. “You did what you could while yours was threatened. But you have to recognize that people have heard of this place, of you, and they are coming.” 

Stiles turned to glance over his shoulder at Derek. The Werewolf was staring back at him, and Stiles didn’t understand the expression on his face. It was... unsurprised. Like hearing all this was perfectly understandable. Like he hadn’t once doubted that Stiles had saved people, even though everything he’d ever shared with him about his time with the Argents was all the lives he’d helped take instead. 

He turned back to the Argents, who both looked ready to be denied safety and sent packing. Two people who had helped Stiles. Chris had seen Caleb that night, Stiles _knew_ he could’ve caught the guy, but he hadn’t. He’d just gone on his merry way home with Kate, Stiles and Benson like this was an unfortunate outing because they hadn’t managed to capture the person they were after. 

And the two of them had risked a lot letting Stiles go. There were cameras, he was sure Gerard had figured it out. He was sure that was why they’d run. And they hadn’t even come demanding help for their part in Stiles’ escape. They hadn’t even brought it up. They’d just asked for sanctuary. 

They’d also brought two other people in need of help, to boot. They’d stopped to help a woman and child, knowing it might slow them down, knowing they were coveted, and instead of trying to cash them in to make some money, they’d driven all the way to Beacon Hills with them. 

To the Spark, and his Alpha. 

Stiles rubbed at his mouth and looked back at Derek in inquiry. 

Derek stared back at him for a moment, then looked over at Chris briefly before his gaze dropped. His eyes were shifting from side to side, and Stiles knew he was weighing all the pros and cons of this. 

But even as he watched him, there was something more on Derek’s face than just the risks involved. Stiles knew that Derek had been held hostage at the Argent’s house when he’d been taken. Gerard and the others had made it clear they knew who Derek was, which stood to reason that while he’d been there, Chris had also been around. 

It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility to think that maybe even then, Chris had been a good person. Maybe even back then, before he’d ever have to make a decision about helping the Spark escape, his eyes had strayed to the young Werewolf boy locked in a cage, and instead of seeing a monster, he’d seen a terrified child. 

Stiles didn’t know anything about Derek’s time with the Argents. Unlike the luxury Stiles had, when Derek had finally gotten out, he hadn’t had the ability to talk through his trauma with anyone. It was all there, trapped in his head, like something he was never going to be able to overcome. 

But when Chris had stepped out of the car, Derek hadn’t become aggressive. He’d barely even shown any protectiveness over Stiles. 

Was it outside the realm of possibility for Derek’s sister finding him being in part due to something Chris Argent had done? 

Stiles hadn’t arrived on the road six months ago until the tail-end of the conversation between all the Hunters. He’d shown up as Chris had been insisting—probably for the millionth time—that they shouldn’t bother with Derek. But he didn’t actually know anything that had been said before then. He had no idea what kind of things Chris had spewed in an attempt to get Derek freed all those months ago. 

When Derek looked at Chris Argent, he didn’t have the eyes of a person terrified and haunted, like he did at the mere sound of Kate’s voice. 

He looked at Chris Argent the same way Stiles had once looked at Derek. Someone who hadn’t necessarily earned his favour, but was clearly doing his best to help. 

Derek looked at Chris Argent like he was the reason Laura had saved him. 

Stiles saw Derek’s throat working, eyes still shifting rapidly, and then his jaw set. He glanced over at Stiles, like he wanted him to give him the right answer, even though he himself didn’t seem sure of what the right answer should _be_. 

He didn’t say anything, but evidently his opinion was clear as day on his face, because Derek looked away again, lips downturned. He definitely wasn’t thrilled, likely knowing having Hunters— _Argents_ , to boot—in his territory was going to cause a _lot_ of problems, but he eventually let out a small sigh and turned back to Stiles. He arched one eyebrow, and Stiles nodded ever so slightly in agreement. 

“Derek!” Cora snapped, sounding fucking _furious_. “They killed Laura!” 

“Cora,” Peter said sharply, turning to her. “This is the Alpha’s decision.” 

“They killed our _family_!” Cora insisted, moving from angry to devastated in half a second, her voice cracking on the last word. “They took from us!” 

“They’ve also given back to us,” Peter said. 

“That is _not_ enough!” She pointed past Peter at Stiles. “He is _one_ person, that is _not_ enough for what they took!” 

“I wasn’t talking about Stiles.” 

If that wasn’t confirmation, Stiles didn’t know what was. Cora’s face fell slack with shock, her eyes shooting past Peter again to look at Derek. Lydia appeared beside her silently, one hand on her shoulder and squeezing. 

It seemed to take some effort, but Cora backed away a step and reached up with one hand to grip at Lydia’s tightly. She twisted her face away, clearly still angry and hurt, but evidently also very confused and conflicted. 

Peter watched her until he was sure she was done, then turned back to Derek, nodding once. “I follow my Alpha. Whatever the decision, I know it is the right one.” 

Stiles felt Derek shift behind him, likely attempting to show his gratitude for the support. There was probably going to be a long discussion between the three Hales when this was over. Stiles supposed Jackson would be on Spark-duty. 

Silence stretched for a moment, like nobody knew how to proceed. Like people were worried one wrong move would have everything dissolve into chaos. This acceptance of Argents in their territory was rocky, at best. Cora’s anger was a fuse that had burnt to the base and had only barely been put out before going off. 

Someone had to say something. Stiles _knew_ someone had to say something. To diffuse the situation. To move things along. Someone had to speak, and he had no idea—

“What about them?” Jackson asked, a few people tensing, like they honestly hadn’t thought anyone would be brave enough to speak. Stiles followed his motion to Alex and Rose, and it occurred to him that—Jackson was right. 

Chris had brought them because they were already headed in this direction. But he was just their chauffeur, nothing more. They still needed somewhere to go. Chris and Allison also needed somewhere to go.

When Stiles turned to look at Peter, the man noticed, did a double-take, then gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m not running a halfway house for Supernaturals, Stiles,” he said dryly, motioning Jackson. He dutifully ignored said individual flipping him the bird. “I’m not made of money.” 

“Don’t you own a massive hotel chain?” Stiles asked.

“Yes, with thousands of employees that I ensure are well cared for. In case you’ve forgotten, I also have many people I need to provide for in town.” He didn’t motion him and Derek, but it was clear they were included in his expenses, along with Cora and Jackson. “I _have_ money, but I’m not _made_ of it.” 

Stiles knew he was asking for a lot. They had no idea how many people were coming, and it wasn’t like the pack as a whole had the ability to house people. They’d need to rent a place, or a few hotel rooms, or both. And it was true that it wasn’t fair to Peter, since he tended to be the one footing all the bills.

But still... They couldn’t turn people away. They couldn’t. 

“What about what you got from Harris for me?” Stiles demanded, because he _knew_ it was a lot of money, even if he didn’t know the exact amount. 

Now Peter looked offended. “The government seized all of that, it was _laundered_!” 

“Shouldn’t have called them,” Stiles countered, which just earned him another annoyed look. 

Peter turned his look towards the four by the car. “Despite what he seems to think, I am _not_ made of money.” 

“We can fend for ourselves,” Chris said quickly, likely in an attempt to stay on everyone’s good side. “I managed to save enough money to keep Allison and I comfortable until we get back on our feet. I just needed to be sure of our welcome. But...” He shifted his gaze to Alex and Rose. 

Neither of them looked to be in good shape. Stiles was willing to bet life hadn’t been great for them after escaping Harris’. He had to wonder where they’d gone, considering Harris hadn’t been that far out from Beacon Hills, but they’d ended up in Denver, meaning they’d gone a long way from California. 

And now they’d come back. Because of him. Because they thought he could protect them. 

Fuck, Stiles couldn’t even protect _himself_ , let alone other people. 

Derek evidently knew where his brain was going, because he cuffed Stiles lightly across the back of the head. Rubbing at the injury, he turned to glare at him, but decided not to give himself too hard a time. After all, he’d saved Mason. And Jackson, kind of. And the people he’d managed to protect while in the Argents’ clutches. 

He supposed he had to cut himself _some_ slack. 

“I can take them.” 

Stiles had momentarily forgotten other people were there and he jumped, turning to look at Parrish, who was shrugging at Stiles’ incredulous look. 

“I’ve got a two bedroom, and the second one’s empty. I’m rare like they are, so there’s comfort in that because I wouldn’t give up one of my own. And I’m a police officer, so there’s less risk of anyone coming knocking where they don’t belong.” He turned back to Alex and Rose. “If you’re comfortable with that, I can help you out until you can get back on your feet.” 

Alex nodded once, a small smile on her face. “Cheers. I’d really appreciate that.” 

“We’ll head for a motel until we can find a place,” Chris said, nodding to Derek this time in thanks. 

“I can bring you, I’m staying there at the moment,” Tara said, and Chris inclined his head in agreement before looking back at Derek. 

“We won’t be any trouble,” he promised. “We just want to be safe. If you want us to stay away from you and yours, we will.”

Stiles stumbled slightly when Derek pressed into his back and wrapped an arm across his chest from behind, baring his teeth at Chris in a very clear, “You stay away from _him_ ,” sort of way. 

Chris nodded again. “Understood. This will be the last time we’re anywhere near the Spark.” 

Alex leaned into the back of the Argents’ car to grab what looked to be a small duffel. She hoisted it over her shoulder, then picked Rose up with her other arm, Stiles kind of impressed at her strength. She nodded a thanks to Chris and Allison, then kissed the little girl’s cheek while walking towards Parrish, who opened the back door of his cruiser for them. 

When Chris and Allison started to get back into their own car with Tara joining them, Stiles called out. 

“Thank you. I don’t know why you did it, but thank you.” 

Allison just climbed into the car without a word. Chris at least managed a small smile and a nod, then followed suit, buckling himself in before starting the car. Everyone waited until they pulled out and drove away, Tara pointing them in the right direction for the motel. Parrish’s car was close behind them, evidently heading back to his place to introduce Alex and Rose to their new home. 

Cora turned away, and when Peter touched her shoulder to stop her, she shrugged him off violently and stormed towards the Preserve at the back of the building. Lydia hurried after her, catching up quickly despite her heels and wrapping one arm around her friend’s shoulders before they disappeared around the side. 

“She’ll be all right,” Boyd said from Derek’s other side. “It was a lot to take in in a short amount of time.” 

Stiles turned to Derek, whose lips were downturned, eyes on the spot his sister had disappeared. He nudged him, the Werewolf looking down at him. 

“Talk to her, okay? This is important.” 

Derek winced, but his sigh confirmed he would. 

“I’ll stay with Stiles,” Boyd said. “Scott, too.” 

“And me,” Jackson agreed. 

“Rather not,” Boyd insisted, but Jackson just flipped him off and they all knew he’d stay anyway. 

Stiles let Jackson’s angry retort and Boyd’s easy responses wash over him without really listening, staring at the ground while he thought about what had just happened, and everything that had come before then, Derek’s arm still draped across his front like a protective barrier between him and the rest of the world. 

He still couldn’t believe it hadn’t even been two full years since everything had been turned on its head. Two years ago, he’d still been moving around every few months with his dad, and strong emotions made pain lance through him from the restrictor on his wrist. Now, he could burn restrictors away while wearing magic-sucking cuffs, teleport people, freeze time, shoot lightning or electricity or whatever out of his hands, turn into a fucking _shadow_ when he got scared... 

And now people were coming. Lots of people, from the sounds of it. Coming to be close to the Spark. To feel like they were safe, like they could maybe live normal lives. 

Stiles felt like that was a _lot_ of pressure for someone who’d recently been held captive for five months because Gerard threatened to kill Derek. 

“Little Spark?”

Stiles glanced up, and realized people were looking at him. Mostly the Weres, likely because they could smell something wafting off him, but the humans seemed to have clued in something was wrong. 

“I just... I don’t get it,” he admitted. “I’m not...” He didn’t even know how to articulate what he was thinking. 

“I’m not surprised people are rallying,” Kira said when it became clear he wasn’t going to continue. “I mean, after everything, and how far you’ve come, it’s pretty inspirational.” 

“I literally haven’t done anything,” Stiles insisted. 

It was Jackson who cuffed him this time, and much harder than Derek had. “I would still be with Harris right now if not for you. So would Alex and Rose. Sure, you needed help in the end, but without you starting the series of events that led to our freedom, we never would’ve escaped.” 

“And like Argent said, you clearly helped a lot of people despite being kept under close watch,” Peter cut in, smiling like a proud father. “I’d say that’s pretty inspirational. And news travels fast in circles like ours. You’ve done well.”

Stiles flinched without even realizing it. Derek’s tenseness behind him was the only reason he noticed, and Peter went perfectly still. It took a few seconds for Stiles to realize _why_ he’d done it. He still really didn’t like direct praise, and Peter’s comment had caught him off-guard. 

Not liking the clear shift in all the people around him, he cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, Derek still pressed against him with one arm across his chest. Something he had moments before relished was no longer quite as welcome. Feeling the long line of heat against his back was doing things to him and he forced himself to take a step forward and out of Derek’s hold, the Werewolf’s arm sliding away easily. 

Stiles missed Derek’s warmth at his back already, but did his best to ignore the feeling.

“We’re gonna have to figure some things out if we’re about to have an influx of newbs in town,” he said, being careful not to look at Derek, since he knew his movement had likely confused him a little. 

Peter hummed, evidently wanting to move things away from Stiles’ unintentional reaction to the praise. “Yes, I may have to speak to the mayor about how he’d like to proceed.” 

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. “You know the mayor?” 

“Yes, Stiles,” Peter drawled, looking offended. “I am a very important member of society.” 

Jackson smirked but said nothing and Stiles chose to keep any future comments to himself. The others started murmuring amongst themselves while wandering back towards their cars, but Stiles noticed Melissa shake her son’s shoulder briefly, giving him a weird look. Scott was sporting a dopey expression, and Stiles wasn’t sure he was happy about it. He didn’t know _why_ , but this spelled trouble. 

Jackson nudged him to get his attention, and then motioned the building impatiently. Stiles shifted obediently, glancing at Derek before jerking his head towards Peter. 

It was clear he didn’t like it, not when Argents were here, but Boyd gripped his shoulder tightly, then released it and led the way to the door. Scott had gotten control of himself and was moving to follow, Jackson waiting at Stiles’ side. 

Sighing, Derek rubbed one hand across his face, then jerked his head towards the building in silent request for Stiles to get moving, then shifted around him to join Peter at his car so they could head back to the house and talk to Cora. 

Stiles watched him go, feeling stupid for missing him already when he hadn’t even left yet. He knew this was important, and it was clearly something long overdue. He hoped Peter would be okay at interpreting Derek’s expressions, but this wasn’t a conversation Stiles felt he should be present for. 

This was a family thing, and he needed them to hash it out together. 

When he turned back to head inside, he caught sight of Jackson’s expression out of the corner of his eye. He looked kind of confused, but also somewhat interested. Stiles ignored the look, resolutely locking his feelings for Derek down, and headed inside. 

Having Argents in town wasn’t going to be fun, and he anticipated problems in the coming days. 

Hopefully he wasn’t going to regret this. 

* * *

Stiles had nightmares. A lot of them. Since his return from the Argents’ place, he’d been having them off and on, but ever since Chris and Allison had shown up a week ago, he found he was having more and more of them. 

He hated what they did to Derek, because he knew how badly the Werewolf wanted to comfort him, but given his restricted speech, the only thing he could do was shush him. And Derek already knew he could _not_ shush him or he’d get blasted out of bed again. So all Derek _could_ do was hug him tightly enough to constrict his breathing and rub his stubble against any part of Stiles he could reach until Stiles calmed down. 

It took him a while sometimes, because not being able to move or breathe didn’t exactly instill calmness, but eventually he’d come back to himself and hang on to Derek like he’d fall apart if he wasn’t absolutely sure the Werewolf was _right there_. 

Sometimes he went back to sleep. Sometimes he didn’t. Occasionally he’d go downstairs and lie down on the sofa to watch some TV. Derek always wandered down a few minutes later when he did that and would lie down on the couch with him, hugging him and clearly unsure of how to help him. 

Stiles knew this was something he had to sort through on his own. Satomi had said some of the things he’d done were going to stay with him, but that when he came to terms with it all, when he spoke to people about it, and learned to forgive himself, he’d be okay. 

That seemed a long way off, and Stiles honestly didn’t know that he’d ever be okay. 

Tonight was different, though. Derek had been acting weird all day, and Stiles didn’t know why. He knew it wasn’t about the Argents being around, because it had been a week since they’d shown up and while he clearly wasn’t happy about their presence, they’d kept their word and stayed away. 

Stiles legitimately had no idea what was wrong, because today had been the same as almost every other day. They’d woken up early because Stiles had had a nightmare, of course. Derek had made him some breakfast while Stiles stared unseeingly at the television, brain too exhausted to actually pay attention to what he was seeing. Jackson had come over because that was just something he did now, it was like he fucking _lived_ there—not that Stiles or Derek minded, but sometimes Stiles just wanted to spend time alone with Derek. 

They’d agreed to go out for lunch, so Stiles had gone to shower. He’d forgotten to bring clothes with him so he’d walked through the loft with the towel over his crotch, not bothering to be embarrassed given Derek had seen him naked before and Jackson was—well, _Jackson_. He’d gone to change, come back down, and then... 

Then Derek had been acting weird. All day. Jackson kept looking between Stiles and Derek during their lunch at the diner, like he was trying to figure something out. Stiles assumed he was also wondering what had happened to make Derek retreat like he was. 

He wasn’t rude or anything, he was just... he wouldn’t look at Stiles when he spoke. He kept his distance when they were walking to and from the car, being sure not to touch him. When they got back to the loft and Stiles stayed downstairs to try and get things back to some semblance of normal, Derek went back upstairs and made Jackson stay with Stiles instead. 

Stiles didn’t mind, he figured Derek just wanted some time alone, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done something wrong. Derek looked like he was at war with himself, like something was bothering him _a lot_. He even ended up leaving them a couple hours later. It looked like it took everything in him to leave Stiles behind with Jackson, but they both knew he’d be safe with all the new barriers and wards he’d put up, not to mention Jackson was with him and that guy would bite off his own arm before letting anything happen to Stiles. 

It was funny sometimes, when Stiles thought about it, how much Jackson had changed. He figured he hadn’t really changed, he’d just pretended to be more of an asshole than he actually was. 

Derek didn’t come back until later in the evening, well after dinner. Stiles and Jackson had ordered pizza and talked about Jackson’s plans. He hadn’t graduated high school, which made sense considering his upbringing, and he’d been thinking of taking some online courses and night classes so he could at least get his GED. He and Mason had been discussing enrolling together in the spring so that they would at least know someone else in their age group. 

Apparently Lydia’s parents had also been speaking to Jackson about opportunities in the fashion industry, because Jackson had _amazing_ bone structure and Natalie Martin knew a lot of people looking for fresh faces to photograph. 

Jackson liked the idea, mostly because of the funds it would bring in, but he also wasn’t particularly thrilled with the thought of being on display again. He knew it would be for a different reason, not about _him_ specifically, but what he was modelling. Still, it chaffed, and he was still ho-humming about it. 

Stiles could relate, because he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do with his life. Derek was a little challenged in that he couldn’t communicate and thus it cut down his job choices exponentially, but Stiles felt like he was even more limited. It wasn’t like he could just go out and get a job somewhere, he had to be careful. He knew he was never going to leave Beacon Hills, but he didn’t know what someone like him could even _do_ for a living. 

He supposed once he got his magic under control he could maybe write educational books about the different kinds of magic. After all, even if he sucked at writing, wasn’t like any publisher in the world was going to turn down a book about magic written by the last Spark on the planet. 

When Derek finally came home, he looked beaten down and worn out, like he’d spent the evening being run over physically _and_ emotionally. Jackson had taken his leave, bitching at Derek for ditching him with a loser like Stiles all day, and then promptly informed them both he would be back in the morning. Derek had gone to shower while Stiles got ready for bed, and then they met back up in the bedroom.

Honestly, Stiles was worried that Derek would keep acting weird, would be afraid to touch him, and that he’d be sleeping on the edge of the mattress like Stiles had some strange, unknown disease. Thankfully, whatever was bothering him didn’t seem to trump comfortable sleep because as soon as Derek was under the covers, and Stiles shifted towards him, Derek wrapped his arms around him like he always did and yanked him into his chest, sighing deeply and nuzzling the top of his head. 

It was something Derek always did, but it still made Stiles laugh every now and then because it was such a _wolf_ thing to do. He didn’t think he was scenting him, exactly. Just... getting comfortable. 

Stiles always managed to fall asleep fairly quickly these days. Comfort, safety and exhaustion made it very easy to pass out, even if he always woke up a few hours later covered in sweat and trying to escape a hold that wouldn’t yield no matter how hard he pushed. He always wondered if Derek woke up before he did, able to smell Stiles’ distress and fear and try and snap him out of it before he woke up himself. 

Tonight was different, because Stiles actually felt okay when he woke up. He did so with a start, like he’d heard something that had jolted him awake, even though he didn’t remember hearing anything. Then he realized he couldn’t breathe because he was being crushed to death. 

Letting out a grunt, he patted at Derek’s chest to make him let go, thinking maybe Derek believed he was having a nightmare. It became clear at the snarl he got in response to the light tap that Derek didn’t think Stiles was having a nightmare.

Not this time.

Because tonight, it was _Derek_ having the nightmare. 

He was still clutching Stiles tightly against himself, hearing some of his joints cracking in protest, and his chest tight with the limited amount of space he had for his lungs to expand so he could fucking _breathe_. Derek was snarling into his hair, the sound low and angry, and Stiles really didn’t want to find out what a terrified Werewolf was like when it was startled awake, but he was kind of low on options. 

“Derek,” he said in as calm a voice as he could. He patted at his chest again, lightly and being sure not to hit him anywhere threatening. “Hey big guy, it’s okay. You’re okay. Wake up, it’s just a dream.” 

Derek snapped his teeth in his sleep and Stiles winced, because he really didn’t want to get bitten by an Alpha Werewolf. He had enough problems being a Spark, he didn’t need to be a Werewolf on top of that. Not to mention with his luck, he’d probably just _die_ if he got the bite. 

“Derek,” he forced out again, pressing his forehead to Derek’s clavicle, since that was where he was positioned at the moment. He closed his eyes and tried to radiate calm, even as he felt himself being crushed to death in the wolf’s protective grip. “Derek, you’re okay. I won’t let anything happen to you, you’re okay. Wake up.” 

Stiles honestly didn’t know if he was doing anything, if Derek could even hear him, but he refused to try and hit him or shock him awake. He didn’t want to do that to him, evidently he was having a rough enough time as it was, and he didn’t want to make it worse. So he just kept talking, insisting Derek was okay, that he was safe, that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt him. 

It seemed to take an eternity, but he figured that was his abused lungs talking, because Derek eventually stopped snarling, though he was still breathing hard. After a few more minutes, the grip he had on Stiles loosened to something less painful and Stiles was able to shift back a bit and sit up. Derek’s eyes were open, the edges tinged red, and he looked half-ashamed, half-scared. It was a very weird expression to see on his face. 

“Hey,” Stiles said, trying not to wince at how abused he felt. He knew it wasn’t Derek’s fault he had super-strength. “Are you okay?” 

Derek said nothing, but he took a few seconds to inspect every inch of Stiles that he could see before sitting up and raking one hand through his hair, averting his gaze. Stiles pressed his lips together, because nobody liked knowing someone else had seen them having a nightmare. Stiles felt like that when he had them, too. 

Leaning forward, Stiles rested his chin on Derek’s closest shoulder while the Werewolf sat there and breathed, clearly trying to get himself back under control. Stiles didn’t say anything, he just stayed where he was, trying to offer comfort in the least invasive way possible. 

After a few minutes, Derek turned to him, the angle a little weird since Stiles still had his chin on his shoulder. Derek reached out one hand, touching his cheek lightly, and the ache in Stiles’ bones dissipated, the Werewolf stealing his pain. It was clearly an apology. 

“It’s okay,” he promised. “I was more worried about you.” 

The eye roll he got in response was a clear, “Of course you were.” 

“I don’t like seeing you upset,” Stiles said, Derek’s gaze shifting back to him. “You haven’t had a nightmare like that before. I was just worried.” 

One corner of Derek’s lips quirked upwards, like he was happy Stiles cared. Which was ridiculous, because of _course_ Stiles cared. If everything he’d done while with the Argents was anything to go by, then he clearly cared a fucking boatload. 

“Wanna go for a drive?” Stiles asked when Derek made no move to lie back down. 

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him, then pointedly looked towards the window, where it was still dark and silent outside. 

Stiles just shrugged. “So what? Fresh air is good for the soul. We can drive around for a while, maybe go to McDonalds and grab some fries and ice cream or something.” 

Derek thought about it for a second, head tilted, then glanced back at Stiles before shifting in a clear indicator that he was going to get up. Stiles grinned and leaned away from him, rolling over so he could climb out of bed on his side. They got dressed in silence, Stiles mostly just throwing a few more layers on and then grabbing one of the throw blankets they’d never gotten around to bringing down to the couch. Derek had actually changed out, like he was embarrassed to head out in his pyjamas. 

Stiles had no shame when it came to what he wore, he’d walk outside in boxers if it weren’t still freezing. 

They headed out of the loft together, Derek holding Stiles’ upper arm when they got outside and looking around. They hadn’t had any more breaches since Allison and Chris, so Stiles knew they were safe, but it never hurt to be cautious. 

Once they were in the Mustang—Stiles still _really_ missed the Camaro—he threw the blanket over his legs and got comfortable, leaning back in his seat while Derek eased them out onto the road. 

“We should start planning for when people start showing up,” Stiles said, which earned him an eyebrow cock from Derek. “You know what I mean. Mason got lucky because Noshiko and Ken were willing to take him in. Jackson got luckier because Peter decided he liked him enough to keep him, for some reason.” Derek smiled a little at that, but said nothing. “Alex and Rose were lucky Parrish agreed to house them, but it’s not like the Pack is made of money, like Peter said. We’re gonna run out of people to help house newbies with and I don’t know about you, but the loft’s pretty small and I’m not looking for any more roommates.” 

Derek made a face at that, clearly indicating he wasn’t interested in new roommates either. But if things kept up how they were, they would end up with people here who had nowhere to go. 

He was sure some of them were coming with money or a plan in mind. Tara had actually decided to move out to Beacon Hills herself, having gotten a job at the precinct with Parrish’s help. She’d flown home a few days ago, having left her car behind at the new house she’d bought, and was in the process of packing and selling her old place so she could officially become a resident of Beacon Hills.

Stiles was glad. It would be nice having a Witch around, and he really liked Tara. She was already basically part of the Pack, as well as an Order member like Deaton, so it was kind of nice having her around. 

But not everyone was like Tara, or even Chris and Allison, who’d managed to find a small condo near the outskirts of town that was spacious yet affordable. There were also those like Mason and Jackson, who’d been taken at a young age and had literally nowhere else to go. 

Stiles started thinking about Satomi and her pack. They had more land, but the Hales owned the entirety of the Preserve. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that maybe they could build a series of little houses similar to Satomi’s Pack. After all, Scott wasn’t going to live with his mother forever, and he knew Erica and Boyd wanted to move in together eventually. The loft was close to the Hale house, and Peter already had friends in high places. Maybe they could work something out price-wise. 

The wolves were all strong, maybe they could trade free labour for assistance building the houses. Stiles knew he could probably use magic to help out, too. They could make it work. 

He started voicing that aloud to Derek while they drove around in circles with the windows down. Not all the way, since it was _freezing_ , but enough that they could both breathe in the crisp air of winter and get their heads on straight. Derek’s thoughtful expression suggested he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. 

They did end up going to McDonalds, though Stiles thought better of the ice cream. He’d been eating a lot of sugar since his return and he needed to get himself back under control. He did have a thought while chewing on a fry though. It was one that made his stomach turn, and something he hated that he was even considering, but it would probably be beneficial in the long run. 

He knew his sudden silence bothered Derek, the Werewolf casting him glances every few seconds, so he pushed the thought from his mind and went back to talking about building new residences for their eventual massive Pack.

It was going to be really, _really_ strange if this actually worked out, because they would probably be the most powerful—and most coveted—Pack in the world. 

Stiles idly wondered if they would get any people coming down from Canada...

**TBC...**


	18. Valentine's Day

**[Jackson]**  
lassie is coming with me today  
**[Jackson]**  
we’re taking rose and alex shopping

Stiles stared down at his phone, somewhat confused. It wasn’t that Jackson texting him was strange, because Lord knew the guy never shut up now that he had his own phone, but he didn’t understand one key thing about those messages. 

**[Stiles]**  
you have money?

 **[Jackson]**  
FUCK YOU STILES!  
**[Jackson]**  
peter gave me one of his credit cards 

That made sense. As much as Peter moaned and groaned about money, he wasn’t exactly stingy about it in general. He’d make a big deal, but if someone needed help, he was going to help them and just hope nobody noticed. 

It was probably why he and Jackson got along so well, now that Stiles thought about it. They were both kind people pretending to be assholes. That had to be exhausting. 

He glanced up when Derek came out of the kitchen, having just finished with their breakfast dishes. Stiles had made eggs, and Derek didn’t like leaving the pan to sit. It was fair for one person to cook and the other to clean up, even when Stiles generally forgot to clean up when Derek cooked. He didn’t do it on purpose! 

Still, now that he thought about it, he figured he should probably try a bit harder not to be a huge child. Derek wasn’t his nanny. 

“You know how long you’ll be gone for?” Stiles asked when Derek sat down beside him on the couch and reached for the remote to change the channel. Stiles didn’t mind, he wasn’t really watching it anyway.

Derek turned to give him a confused look, remote in his hand and half-raised, but the channel not changing. Stiles just waggled his phone and Derek cocked an eyebrow. 

“Your outing? With Jackson? Apparently you guys are taking Rose and Alex out shopping?” 

When Derek’s eyebrows flew up, Stiles frowned and turned back to his phone. 

**[Stiles]**  
so does Derek know about these plans of yours or......?

 **[Jackson]**  
does now  
**[Jackson]**  
tell him to get his fat ass downstairs i havent got all day

 **[Stiles]**  
his ass isn’t fat

 **[Jackson]**  
you’d know

Stiles rolled his eyes but showed Derek his phone, the Werewolf reading the message over. Stiles could tell based on his expression that he wasn’t happy about this. He likely didn’t want to leave the loft with Argents in their territory, even if he was the one who’d said they could stay. 

“You’re gonna get wrinkles to go with that fat ass,” Stiles insisted, reaching out to rub insistently at Derek’s forehead. He got an unimpressed look for that and just grinned. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got wards set up. They might not be as strong as Satomi’s, but I’ll know if anyone malicious is coming and call you right away, okay?”

Derek’s expression made it clear that _wasn’t_ okay, but a very long, loud honk from outside suggested Jackson didn’t care. He turned to scowl at the window, then faced Stiles again before pulling his phone out of his hand and scrolling through his contacts. He stopped on Boyd’s before giving it back to him. 

“Sure. I’ll call and see if he can come. If not, I’ll call Scott or something. I’ll get someone to come over.” Stiles would’ve said Peter, but given Jackson was driving, Peter was likely without a car now. Not that the house was far, but Peter whined. 

Derek clearly still wasn’t happy about it, but another loud honk had him glaring at the windows before he stood and started grabbing his things. Stiles was sure Derek would’ve argued against leaving, but Jackson seemed to be one of the chosen few that Derek didn’t question. If Jackson told him to go somewhere, Derek did it, likely because he knew there was a reason since Jackson would never put Stiles’ life in danger. 

It was weird, their friendship. Stiles was glad they had each other, he just still found it a little strange because they both seemed to act like they didn’t like each other, but would drop everything if the other asked them to. Derek leaving Stiles alone at Jackson’s request was proof that the Alpha trusted him, and that there was a reason he had to leave the loft, even if he didn’t like it. 

Stiles followed Derek downstairs, even as Jackson continued to lay on the horn like an asshole. When they reached the door, Derek turned to Stiles and motioned the ground in front of him emphatically, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, yes.” He flapped one hand at him. “No taking risks. It’s fine, we have cookies upstairs, and a train car of blankets. I’ll be fine.” 

It still took Derek almost a minute to leave the building, and Stiles locked all the locks back up when the door shut. He knew Derek waited on the other side until he heard every single one snap into place. 

Stiles himself waited at the bottom of the stairs until he heard a car door slam and Jackson pulling away. When everything fell silent outside, he sighed and figured he should call Boyd, even though he didn’t want to bug him. Derek would be pissed if he didn’t though, so he’d do it when he got back upstairs. 

Though now he wasn’t sure what to do with his day. Shrugging, he just turned to trudge back up the stairs, stretching on his way. He’d only just reached the loft door when he heard a car approaching and froze, turning to stare back down the steps. It was possible Jackson had come back for some reason. Maybe Derek had panicked and decided he couldn’t leave Stiles alone and they had to wait for Boyd or someone to show up first. 

After all, Stiles hadn’t escaped the Argents that long ago. 

He tensed when he heard a car door slam, still standing at the top of the stairs. When he heard the distinct sound of a lock snapping undone, his hand instinctively touched his phone through his pocket. His heart started hammering in his chest, because Derek knew all the keys by heart, and could unlock all five locks in under ten seconds. 

There was a five second delay between lock one and lock two. Which meant it was possible someone was using magic to unlock them. 

“Derek?” Stiles asked stupidly, because he _knew_ it wasn’t Derek. 

“You were gonna let me struggle through all these fucking locks?” a voice called loudly, sounding offended. 

Stiles relaxed instantly and rubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus _Christ_ , Cora.” 

“Let me in, I don’t have patience for this.” 

He hurried back down the stairs to the ground floor, heart still a little rabbity, and moved to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open. He caught sight of Lydia’s car pulling away when he got it open, and figured that had been Cora’s ride.

It also explained why Jackson had kidnapped Derek. He and Cora were... not doing particularly well. Despite their attempted conversation three days ago when the Argents were given sanctuary, Cora still wasn’t okay with it after what their family had done. 

She and Derek were working on it, but it was clear she was having a hard time and didn’t agree with his decision. 

Pushing her way into the building once the door was open, Cora turned to lock it up, checking each lock twice to be sure it was secure, like she honestly didn’t trust the place to keep Stiles safe. He let her do what she needed to do before moving to head back upstairs, Cora following behind him. 

“So,” he said while they climbed up to the loft, “what brings you to my humble home?” 

“You live in a huge building, it’s not humble.” 

“I didn’t buy it, and most of the building is falling apart, be nice to me,” Stiles insisted with a smile over his shoulder. 

The expression she sported made it clear she wasn’t going to be joking around much today. They usually had good banter going, but apparently this was the extent of it for the moment. He didn’t let it bother him, he knew she wasn’t in a good place right now. 

When they reached the loft, he motioned the couch while heading for the kitchen to grab some snacks and drinks, bringing them back out with a chocolate chip cookie between his teeth. He set everything down on the coffee table before falling onto the couch, Cora already sitting there with her feet up on it. 

She hadn’t even taken her shoes off. Normally he’d tease her for being rude, but this didn’t seem like the time. 

When they were both settled, Stiles turned off the television and silence fell. He knew she was there for a reason, and could guess at what that reason _was_ , but she didn’t say anything for a long while. Just when he was going to try and say something, even though he still wasn’t sure _what_ , she finally spoke. 

“I’m so mad at him.” Her voice was soft, like she hated admitting it aloud, but couldn’t help it. “I can’t believe he let them stay. _Them_. Argents. After what they did to us, to _him_.” She glanced at him briefly. “To you.” 

Stiles’ right hand unconsciously shifted to rub at his left wrist and he looked up at the black screen of the TV. Cora was looking down into her lap, like she didn’t want to have this conversation, but she’d exhausted it with everyone else. 

Besides, nobody could understand her brother’s choices better than the only other person in the pack who’d been held captive by the same people. Definitely not as long, but he still had a bit of an understanding of how Argents worked. 

“They killed our family,” Cora said softly, Stiles looking back at her. She was picking at some kind of twig that had gotten tangled in the laces of her combat boots. “I grew up without a mom or a dad because of the Argents. I grew up without an older sister because she was forced to take on a role that she shouldn’t have had to until she was an adult. I grew up with an angry and resentful brother who defied Peter every chance he got because he didn’t know how to deal with all the emotions he had. I grew up with an uncle who did his best while nursing his own broken heart that he wouldn’t let anyone help him with.” She shook her head. “I know it’s not fair, because you didn’t grow up living the perfect life either, but I just—the Argents took _so much_ from me. And it’s not fair to give them sanctuary here when they’re the reason I don’t have a family.” 

“You have a family,” Stiles said softly, reaching out to lightly touch her closest knee with one hand. “I’ve learned since joining this pack that family isn’t just blood. Family is who you choose to let into your life. I know it’s not the same thing, because I’m never going to stop missing my dad, and I’m never going to stop hating Deucalion for taking him from me, but Cora, we _have_ family. Just because they’re not blood doesn’t make them any less family.” 

Cora sniffed, shrugging one shoulder and wiped at her nose. He saw her jaw working, but she wasn’t crying and she still didn’t turn to look at him. 

“I don’t want them here,” she admitted. “They don’t deserve to be here, where they’re safe. They did things, and they should pay for those things.” 

Stiles didn’t really know what to say to that, because he knew it was true. Chris and Allison Argent may have helped him escape, and they may have looked the other way when they could’ve captured or killed other Supernatural beings, but their hands were by no means clean. They had blood on them, same as Stiles. 

“I did things too,” he said quietly, almost trying to make like he hadn’t said the words at all because they hurt him so much. 

“That’s different,” Cora insisted. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice, I just chose Derek.” 

Cora said nothing to that, likely because she knew he was right. Everyone had a choice when it came to doing the right thing, and sometimes, people were selfish. It was probably something Cora herself was figuring out on her own, because she wanted Chris and Allison gone for selfish reasons, even if deep down, he was sure she knew letting them stay was the right thing to do. Protecting them from the wrath of Gerard Argent was the right thing to do. 

“Peter said Chris is the reason Laura found out where Derek was,” Cora said, her voice quiet again. “He said... that when he ran into her unexpectedly once, he let slip that they had an animal locked up who’d been captured trying to fulfil a promise.” 

Stiles thought about those words for a long time after they were said. Not because of the confirmation that Chris had been the one to start the sequence of events that led to Derek’s rescue, and not even at the implication that he was right and Peter had probably helped Laura free him. 

What he couldn’t help but focus on was the fact that Chris had run into Laura, and Stiles knew who Laura was always with growing up. 

Chris Argent had found Stiles once before, and he hadn’t told anyone. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Stiles started, snapping out of his thoughts and turning to Cora. “For what?”

“What I said,” she admitted, making a face. “When I insisted that one person wasn’t enough for what they took from me. I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t,” Stiles said, so she wouldn’t have to apologize more than she already had. “You were angry, and hurt. And confused. I know you didn’t mean it the way it came out, you just meant that having one person returned wasn’t enough to soothe the ache of the people you’ve lost. I get it. I wasn’t mad.” 

“I shouldn’t have said it,” she insisted. “I should be grateful that we got you back. And I should be grateful that Chris helped us get Derek back. But I just...” She reached up to clutch at her shirt over her heart. “I just can’t stop thinking about what their family stole from me. And there’s just this... _voice_ in my head. It’s dark and ugly and it won’t stop and it _hurts_.” 

Stiles knew that feeling better than most. For him, it was a physical _being_ , so he definitely understood. 

“I know it’s hard,” Stiles said softly, hand still on her knee. “But there has to be a layer of separation. I’m not saying Chris and Allison are guiltless, but neither am I. Or even Jackson. Or anyone who’s ever taken a life when they had the option not to. I just think that...” He trailed off, trying to think of the best way to word it, licking his lips before continuing. “Chris grew up in that place. He is a victim of his own upbringing. Despite that, he still managed to look at Derek and recognize that he wasn’t a monster that deserved to be tortured, and he found a way to get him out. He looked at me, and recognized that I wasn’t someone who deserved to be bound and used. He might not have stopped Gerard from killing our parents, from killing Laura, but I don’t think he helped him, either. I don’t think it’s fair to punish him for what his father did. His family is awful, but despite that, he managed to retain some of his humanity, and he taught his daughter the same thing.” 

Cora let out a small, bitter laugh, wiping her nose again. “How do you make it sound so _easy_?” 

“Easy?” 

“Looking at what he’s done, and compartmentalizing.” She glanced at him. “He was there with you. He saw you every day, locked away, suffering, hurting. He saw you and he did nothing.” 

“But he didn’t do nothing,” Stiles said. “He argued with the family every time they spoke about coming back for Derek. He always stuck close to me whenever we went out looking for people so that if I had the chance to warn them off, nobody else would notice. He fed me information about when it would be safe to attempt to escape without actually telling me anything that could come back to him. He might not have unlocked the cuffs around my wrists,” Stiles glanced down at his hands, flipping them palm-up so he could stare at the scars on the inside of them, “but he gave me the key so I could take them off myself.” 

Cora was silent for a long moment, then eventually, very slowly, she leaned into Stiles and let her head fall onto his shoulder. He finally dropped his hands back to his lap then, and stared at the television in front of him, their positions reflected back at him in the dark screen. 

“How do you do it?” she asked quietly. “How do you make yourself stop being so angry at them?” 

Stiles pressed his lips together. “I think... it’s a lot easier to hate someone than it is to forgive them. If it was easy, then you wouldn’t be struggling so much with it.” He rested his cheek on top of her head, letting out a small sigh. “You don’t have to be their friend, Cora. You don’t even have to like them. But they did what they could, and they tried their best, and they had to run because of it. If we cast them out, Gerard would never stop chasing them, and they don’t deserve that when they tried to do the right thing. Take it from someone who knows.” 

Cora let out a small scoff. “How do you make it sound so easy?” she asked again. “You and Derek. You just... you were wronged the most, the two of you. But you can still look at them and think they deserve to be saved.” 

“No one knows what Chris did for Derek while he was in that place,” Stiles said quietly. “He can’t tell us. But Derek wouldn’t have let them stay unless he felt like they warranted his understanding. I think... Derek just wants people to be the best they can be, and he can’t expect that from others without being the first to make the hard decisions.” 

They were silent for a moment longer, Stiles having reached out to take one of Cora’s hands and rubbing his thumb gently along her skin while she thought about everything they’d discussed. 

Stiles knew that this wasn’t going to be easy for anyone. Not for Cora, not for Derek, not for him. But Allison had always been nice to him, and she’d looked terrified when they’d shown up, thinking they were going to be denied safety and forced to live a life on the run for doing what was right. 

He knew they wouldn’t be best friends, but he was willing to slowly mend the bridge. The foundation was there, he just had to build it up, and he wanted to make sure the sacrifices made were worth it to both her and her father. They hadn’t asked to be born Hunters the same way Stiles hadn’t asked to be born a Spark. 

Some things were outside of their control. 

“I hate them,” Cora finally said. 

“I know,” he admitted. “And that’s okay.” 

“I don’t think I can forgive them.” 

“That’s okay, too.” 

She was quiet for another few seconds, then said, “But I can forgive Derek for letting them stay. I can deal with them in my territory, but I’ll never stop hating them.” 

“And no one will ever say that you have to,” he insisted, turning his head to kiss at the crown of hers. “Letting them stay is already more than enough, you don’t have to be their friend.” 

She let out a loud bark of laughter at that, which was a very clear, “We are _never_ going to be friends,” but he didn’t say anything about it. For now, the emotions were still raw. In time, they would all move forward as best they could. 

They stayed like that for a moment longer, Stiles still rubbing his thumb along her hand and resting his cheek on her head. He could tell she was slowly calming down, and he hoped that she felt a little better. Nobody was telling her that her anger wasn’t justified, but an eye for an eye in this case wasn’t going to make them any better than the Argents were. 

When it was clear she’d reached a level of neutrality again, almost like resignation, he lifted his head but didn’t let go of her hand. 

“You said earlier that Peter told you about Chris’ help,” he said quietly, cautiously. “Did Laura tell him about that, or was it because Peter went with her to free Derek?” 

“He went with her.” Cora shifted so she was leaning more into Stiles, getting comfortable with her head on his shoulder. “Parrish and Noshiko, too. When you were taken, that was the first place the pack checked, but the Argents weren’t there anymore.” 

Stiles hummed, because it made sense. He wondered if Derek destroyed that property in his rage, both for it not housing Stiles, and for the trauma he’d gone through in that place. Stiles kind of hoped he’d taken the place apart and turned it to rubble. 

“Peter never said he was there when Derek got out,” Stiles admitted. 

Cora snorted. “Peter never wants anyone to know he has a heart.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed quietly. He hesitated, then said, “You know he’s—”

“I know,” she cut off. Stiles didn’t know why he’d assumed she wouldn’t have realized that Peter was trying to break Derek’s curse. He supposed it was because he didn’t think anyone else read the books and saw the notes in the margins, but maybe Cora did. 

Maybe Cora used to help until it got too painful. 

“I should go,” she said after a moment. 

“You could stay,” Stiles countered. “Derek’s making lasagna for dinner.” 

He felt her shift, like she was going to get up anyway, but then she settled and said, very quietly, “I hate lasagna.” 

They were still sitting together on the couch when Derek got back an hour later. And while Stiles knew things weren’t going to be perfect for a long time, they were _better_ , and that was really all he could hope for. 

* * *

Stiles was in the process of spooning cereal into his mouth when Derek’s phone went off. He pulled it out of his pocket while heading for the kitchen to grab some more coffee and paused, looking confused. Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him but the Werewolf just hit one button before continuing to stare at the screen. When it dinged again, he blinked at it, then wandered back over to Stiles, turning it to face him. 

**[Peter]**  
Nephew, I wasn’t aware I was your personal mailbox. Did you send a package here?

 **[Derek]**  
2

 **[Peter]**  
Did the little Spark send one here? 

“Oh,” Stiles said, stomach clenching in dread. “I was hoping it’d take longer to get there.” 

Derek cocked an eyebrow as Stiles took the phone from him, texting Peter back. 

**[Derek]**  
i didn’t realize it’d get there so fast  
**[Derek]**  
we’ll drop by for it later

 **[Peter]**  
No need, your pet is looking to visit, I’ll send it along with him. 

**[Derek]**  
thx peter 

He handed the phone back to Derek, who’d been reading over his shoulder. The Werewolf cocked an eyebrow but Stiles wasn’t ready to talk about it yet, so he just shoved more cereal into his mouth. Derek hovered, waiting for an explanation, but when it became clear he wasn’t going to get one, he put his phone back and went to the kitchen for his coffee.

Jackson showed up a half hour later while Stiles was working on fixing the windows in the train cars and Derek was staring at a map of the Preserve by the stairs. Stiles figured he was thinking about what they’d talked about in the car a few days back and was trying to see if it would work. 

“I’m not a mailman,” Jackson snapped, tossing the package at Stiles. He threw out one hand to catch it with his magic, pleased at how easily he managed it, the box hovering slightly. He was really getting good at his magic since his return. 

He knew it was his brain subconsciously insisting he had to get better or he’d get captured again. Stiles wasn’t going to let that happen, never again. And the package was kind of an extra layer of that. 

Derek was watching him while Stiles floated the package closer to himself, finally catching it once it was close enough. Jackson grunted something—probably rude, it was Jackson—before turning to Derek and asking what the fuck his lazy ass was doing. He still sat with Derek and looked over the map, even though he had no idea _why_ they were doing that. 

Stiles fixed up four windows before he’d done enough for the day. Sweat was matting his hair against his forehead and his shirt was sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He felt kind of gross, pulling the shirt away from himself to air out a bit, but when he let it go it just stuck back to him like a second skin again. 

He went to join the other two and explained what the deal was, since Jackson had been grumping about not understanding since his arrival. Jackson insisted it was a stupid idea because Stiles had thought it up, but he didn’t miss the way Jackson perked up at the concept of having his own place. After all, not much of Jackson’s life had been about him making his own choices, so he was probably eager for the opportunity. 

“Speaking of your idiotic ideas,” Jackson said when Derek folded the map back up, clearly expecting to get nothing else done now that Jackson was there. “I have an idiotic idea that’s right up your alley.” 

“Do you, now?” Stiles asked, crossing his arms. He was standing in front of the two of them by the stairs, and didn’t miss that Derek was very careful not to look at him. Stiles didn’t know why, Jackson didn’t seem to have a problem. 

“Don’t know if you’re aware, but Alex made contact with an old friend. Someone like us.” He motioned the two of them, and Stiles knew he meant someone _rare_ and _coveted_ when he said that. “Apparently there’s a huge mansion down in Billings, Montana housing a whole bunch of rares. I was thinking of taking a road trip sometime next week, you in?” 

Derek’s head shot towards Jackson and he snarled, eyes glowing red and face beginning to shift. Jackson ignored him like it was old hat, eyes locked on Stiles. 

And Stiles...

He didn’t know what to say. 

A part of him had immediately wanted to jump on it. The chance to save more people like them? _Fuck_ yes, right up his alley, when could they leave? 

But another part of him remembered that cell in the Argent basement. The restrictors, and the cuffs, and the things he’d been forced to do. Having to rely on the Hunters to bring him food and water, only being able to sleep as long as they allowed him to, not having control over when he could shower, having Derek’s life threatened over and over in a bid for him to behave. 

He wanted to do this, to help people, to maybe save someone he’d put in that horrible position personally. But he honestly didn’t know if he was ready for that. For the possibility of things going sideways, of being trapped again, caged again. 

Of being apart from Derek again. 

“It’s cool if you’re not into it,” Jackson said, his voice cutting through Stiles’ steadily growing unease. “Alex said she’s in, so we’ve got two rares, in any case. Parrish debated it, but he’s trying not to call attention to himself. Alex and I are already known because of Harris, so it’s not any riskier for us to go versus not going.” Jackson stood, slapping the back of his jeans to get invisible dirt off. “Up to you. We’re gonna start planning tomorrow, so let us know either way.” 

He waved over his shoulder while heading for the door and disappeared through it. Stiles watched all the locks twist from the outside, and it occurred to him he hadn’t really given much thought to the fact that Jackson had a set of keys. It made sense, considering he was apparently the only person holding Derek up while Stiles had been gone, but he hadn’t actually clued in until just now. 

Stiles jumped when Derek’s hand touched his cautiously, the Werewolf still sitting on the steps, staring up at him with concern. 

Forcing a smile, Stiles started past him to head up to the loft, package under one arm and slapping Derek’s back once on his way by. “I’m fine, big guy. Come on, I need to talk to you.” 

Derek followed after him, Stiles heading through the loft door and dropping the package on the table. He went to the kitchen to grab a knife so he could slice through the tape, Derek already seated by the time he came back. 

He moved across from the Werewolf, knife in hand, and stared down at the package, wondering if he was actually going to do this. It was a little late to reconsider, given the package was _here_ , but he couldn’t help the hesitation. 

Derek said nothing, sitting silently and watching Stiles, a small furrow in his brow, like he was trying to figure out what was going on, but unable to fully comprehend why Stiles was so nervous about a package he’d apparently ordered. 

Letting out a small exhale, Stiles cut through the tape and pulled back the flaps. There was another nondescript box inside, this one the actual purchase, and he slit the tape from the edges of that one before opening it. Derek did a full body jerk of surprise, eyes shooting back up to Stiles, but he ignored him and just reached into the box for the instructions. 

He didn’t get them far before Derek’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing hard enough to hurt. When Stiles looked at him, his expression said, “ _Why_?!” 

“I don’t want to be caught off-guard again,” Stiles insisted. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot since Satomi left. About my level of magic. About how powerful I’m becoming. I just want to be prepared the next time someone comes at me with these. If I can wear them and still do magic, and do it _well_ , it means no one can ever cage me again. They won’t have the means to.” 

Derek still looked distressed, eyes shifting back and forth between Stiles and the contents of the box. Stiles waited for him to calm down a bit before prying his fingers off his wrist and bringing the instructions closer, falling into his chair and opening the small booklet. 

It seemed fairly straight-forward, which he felt made sense, considering nobody would want to buy something complicated if they had to get a magic user under control quickly. He’d actually felt a little sick while browsing all the different options the other day. Derek had been making dinner in the kitchen and Stiles had angled himself at his desk in such a way that he could browse the website without Derek seeing what he was doing. 

And now, here he sat, with a brand new set of customized cuffs and an instruction booklet on how to use them. He’d specifically customized the cuffs so that he could wear them out in public without anyone knowing what they were. Gerard hadn’t needed to hide them since he was clearly happy to remind Stiles who was in charge, and nobody ever really saw him anyway, but Stiles wanted to be able to wear these as much as possible and that meant having to make sure it wasn’t obvious what they were. 

He’d bought a pair of black ones that were designed to look like leather wristbands. The inside had the usual metallic spikes, but the metal band was covered in a layer of fake leather that made them look like a fashion statement instead of veritable shackles. All things considered, they actually looked kind of nice. 

Stiles read through the instructions from beginning to end before putting the booklet back down. Derek didn’t look happy, sitting across from him with his face set and his arms crossed. Stiles ignored his silent temper tantrum and held his hand out. 

“Can I have your phone?” 

The way Derek’s jaw clenched spoke volumes. “If you think you’re going to put the controls for _your_ cuffs onto _my_ phone, you are _insane_ ,” is what it said. 

“I don’t trust anyone else,” Stiles said quietly, hand still held out. “I can’t put it on my phone, it literally says in the booklet that if I’m wearing the cuffs and hold the phone with the controls, the app recognizes it and won’t do what I ask. Would you rather I give the controls to Jackson? Or Peter? Because I can call them if that’s what you want.” 

He knew it was a low blow. He knew it was unfair. He knew it was borderline manipulative. 

But Stiles literally could _not_ have someone else with the app on their phone. He couldn’t. He trusted Peter. He trusted Jackson. He knew they wouldn’t hurt him, knew they would never do anything to make this worse for him. But... 

They weren’t Derek. 

He trusted a lot of people in the pack with his life, but Derek was the only one he trusted with his safety. Derek was the only person he fully trusted to have the app and never play with it just to see what it could do. If Derek didn’t have the app on his phone, Stiles didn’t know that he could honestly put the cuffs on. 

Derek’s jaw worked at the words, clearly weighing his options before his face hardened and he reached into his pocket. He looked pissed, and every move he made was jerky and aggressive, clearly displaying his displeasure with this whole situation. But, eventually, he did hand his phone over, slapping it so hard into Stiles’ hand that it actually hurt. 

Stiles transferred the phone to his other hand so he could shake out the injured one, but Derek didn’t look sorry. He just crossed his arms again like a petulant child and slouched in his seat, looking pissed and furious to be backed into a corner. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, which just earned him a growl and bared teeth. 

Stiles went to the app store to find the program—hilarious that there was a fucking program in the app store, because apparently Apple had gotten rid of Tumblr for its porn but having an app that forced slavery was okay—and downloaded it once he found it. He went through the setup process, scanning the barcode on the instruction booklet to confirm the right set of cuffs, and then typing in the individual codes on the inside of both cuffs when he was prompted to. 

It asked a few questions about the intended wearer, the power levels, and various other tidbits—weight, height, that kind of thing—and then confirmed the connection was established. Stiles held the phone back out to Derek, who refused to take it. 

He really couldn’t hold back the sigh. “Derek, this is a good thing. Wouldn’t you rather I be over-prepared for another attempted kidnapping?” 

Derek uncrossed his arms and jabbed once towards Stiles’ wrist. 

Where the scars were stark white against his already pale skin. 

“Yeah, I’m not looking forward to that, either. But I’m hoping it’ll go by relatively quickly. One month, _maybe_ two. I was already at ninety-seven, it shouldn’t take long until I can handle one-hundred, and then once I can do magic comfortably while _at_ one-hundred, we can take them off.” 

Derek was still scowling at him. 

“You know I’m right,” Stiles argued. “You know this is a good idea. You’re just pissed because you don’t like it. I never said I did. And you have control.” He shook the phone once. “You control everything. If one day I say I can handle it, and you know I can’t and I’m being stubborn, you can turn them off and I can’t do shit about it. You’re in control.” He gave the phone another shake. “You can literally do whatever you want.” 

When Derek uncrossed his arms and threw them up angrily, Stiles realized that was what he didn’t like. He didn’t _like_ being the one in control. He didn’t _like_ having to determine whether or not Stiles was okay or if he needed a break. He wasn’t happy about the situation, but he was even less happy about being the one forced to control him. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles insisted, because he knew it wasn’t fair. “But it has to be you. I can’t—it has to be you. Please. _Please_.” He gave the phone another shake. 

Derek kept glaring at him, jaw working and eyes beginning to tinge red around the edges. Finally, he reached out and snatched the phone up, using the same hand to point one angry finger at Stiles. It clearly said he was doing this only until Stiles could manage the cuffs, and then he was never doing _anything_ like this again. 

“Got it,” Stiles promised, nodding. “I promise. Never again.” 

Derek let out an angry huff, turning the phone to face himself and flipping through the app quickly. He picked up the instruction book and read through it while Stiles waited, then put the book down. 

They both stared at the cuffs. Stiles let out a slow breath and Derek glanced up at him before waving one hand authoritatively in a, “Let’s get this over with” way. 

Stiles held his wrists out, and Derek hesitated before grabbing at one of the cuffs. When he brought it to Stiles’ right wrist, he held it in such a way that he could snap it into place while also touching Stiles’ skin. Stiles could see black lines sliding up Derek’s arm when the cuff finally closed around his wrist. He felt the sharp pinch, and then nothing, Derek stealing the pain as quickly as he could. 

Just like when Satomi had put the cuffs on, he already felt their effects. Just because he was better at handling the power-suckage didn’t mean it was pleasant, and it didn’t mean it had no effect. It still drained him, and made him feel cold all over, it just didn’t stop him from using magic, was all. 

Derek repeated the process on his other wrist, and Stiles immediately wanted to take a nap. He rubbed at his right wrist just above the cuff, staring down at them because they looked pretty good, like a real fashion statement. No one would know what they really were, which was kind of the idea. 

He was still rubbing at his wrist when Derek stood abruptly. Stiles watched him stalk to the kitchen, and when he returned, he had the cookie jar with him, setting it down in front of Stiles and taking the lid off, pointing into it in a very clear order. 

“You’re only feeding my sugar addiction,” Stiles informed him, but obediently reached into the jar to grab two cookies. 

He munched on them, feeling maybe one percent better, while Derek sat back down and played around with the app. He tilted his head, then shifted the power bar up. Stiles didn’t really feel the difference, probably because he was used to it. Derek turned it around to show it was at seventy. 

Shaking his head and licking crumbs off his lips, Stiles motioned for him to go higher. “Just put it at ninety-seven.” 

He got a _real_ look for that. 

“Fine, ninety.” 

Derek still didn’t look impressed. 

“Okay look, if you start too low, this whole exercise if pointless.” 

Derek scowled at him, turning the phone to face him once more, and moved the power bar up. When he turned it back around, his face clearly showed that was as high as he was willing to put it for today. 

It was at eighty-eight. 

“Good enough,” he said, nibbling on his second cookie. Derek locked his phone and put it away, but he was eying Stiles like he expected him to keel over any second. 

It was kind of rude, but Stiles didn’t let it bother him. He knew Derek was just worried. 

While they sat in silence, Stiles chewing on his cookie and Derek watching him for any signs of discomfort, Stiles thought about Jackson’s offer. About going into another mansion to help free some people. 

They still didn’t really have anywhere for them to stay. Apparently Peter and the mayor had spoken about setting up a temporary camp in one of the motels in town, with the promise of compensation for the owners, but it wasn’t like they knew how many rooms they’d have or how many people would be coming. 

Stiles already knew at least one group had arrived, because Cora had come by one day and told Derek the Alpha was needed, but wouldn’t let Stiles go. They didn’t want him out and about just yet, considering they didn’t have any guarantee the people showing up weren’t working for the bad guys. So far, none of Stiles’ barriers suggested anyone malicious, but they were still trying to keep him mostly hidden. 

He knew Peter had another meeting with the mayor in the morning, so it would be a good idea to tell him about their thoughts on building houses in the Preserve. The sooner they started, the better, and while Stiles knew there would be a bit of a delay in getting people moved in since new people that close to both the Hale pack’s house _and_ the loft—and the Order—was risky, he figured they would have to trust people to be on their side. 

Besides, they had people they already trusted to start with. Alex and Rose were fine, because Jackson could vouch for them, but everyone else would be new. There was going to have to be a vetting process, and on top of that, the reason Derek had been asked to go meet with them was because he was the Alpha. He was in charge of the pack, and overlooked the territory. It was up to him whether or not anyone could join the pack, or even stay in town. If someone gave him a bad vibe, he was obviously going to reject them, but then what? Even if they were honestly a rare and Derek just didn’t like them, they had nowhere else to go. 

It was all really stressful for Stiles, but he also didn’t like that he was kind of too scared to help people who obviously needed him. What if that mansion up in Montana had ten, twenty, _thirty_ rares in it? What if Jackson and Alex went in, and never came out? How could he live with himself? 

Stiles started when Derek’s fingers brushed his cheek and he looked over at him. Derek looked concerned, but Stiles just forced a smile, offering him a small shrug. 

“Just thinking,” he admitted. “About the place in Montana. What Jackson said.” 

The unimpressed look on his face suggested he was still pretty unhappy Jackson had brought it up at all. 

“I know. I kind of wish he hadn’t told me. I’d rather he went without letting me know, so I could be mad at him about it, but also kind of relieved I didn’t have to think about whether or not to go.” Stiles clenched his hands into fists. “I want to go. I want to help people. It’s what my mom did with her powers. I just... I’m terrified.” It chaffed having to admit it, but it was the truth. “What if something goes wrong? What if I end up back with Argent? What if I can’t get out? I don’t want... I can’t go through that again. Not a second time. I don’t want to lose you again.” 

Derek’s hand shifted so he could cup his cheek instead of brushing his fingers against it, thumb shifting softly back and forth beneath his eye. He had a soft expression on his face, one Stiles hadn’t seen before and couldn’t read, but he felt inclined to believe Derek was telling him the feeling was mutual. That losing him once had been more than enough. 

“I can’t sit here and do nothing though,” Stiles whispered. “If I do, I’m no better than the people who puts our kind in cages. There’s a saying like that, isn’t there? Edmund Burke said it. It’s about how the only way bad people get away with doing bad things is for good people to do nothing. Well, I’m a good person. At least, I think I am.” 

Derek’s hand left his cheek so he could flick him in the forehead, giving him a look. 

“I’m a good person,” Stiles acquiesced. “And I’m powerful. And I can do magic, even with these.” He held his hands up, eyes shifting to his wrists. “If I can do all that, I shouldn’t let fear make me a bad person.” 

It was obvious Derek did _not_ like the idea of Stiles going out there and putting himself in danger, but the difference between this time and the last time was that Derek motioned himself, very clearly saying he would be going with him. Maybe not into the mansion, but he’d be around outside, as Stiles was sure Peter would be. And other members of the pack. 

It wouldn’t be like last time, where they went in half-assed and barely got out in one piece. This time, Stiles would have friends at his side, and a pack at his back. They could really make this a thing. They could make saving those like them a real thing, helping other rares live normal lives, make Beacon Hills a place where people could be themselves and know the town would keep them safe. 

After all, they’d kept Stiles safe, and he knew nobody would say no to having a large number of rare and powerful Supernatural beings around. It would only make the town safer, because the last thing anyone would think of doing was come after someone in a town where the rarest of the rare were.

A town where the Spark was. 

Stiles so very badly wanted to be someone people were afraid to cross. He didn’t know how to do that yet, but he was sure an idea would come to him eventually. He wanted people afraid to come to Beacon Hills coveting what didn’t belong to them. 

He wanted the mere thought of the Hale pack to strike fear in the hearts of Hunters and Collectors. 

“Can we go tomorrow?” Stiles asked after he’d been silent for long enough. “To the planning, I mean. I’m not committing, I just—I want to go. See what Jackson and Alex have in mind. Is that okay?” 

Derek just snorted and rolled his eyes, like Stiles was asking a stupid question. He knew Derek would never deny him, which was part of the reason being close to him was so scary sometimes. Because Stiles wanted him so much, and he knew if he pushed just a _little_ bit, he would get what he wanted, because Derek always gave him everything. 

But there were some things Stiles wasn’t willing to take from him.

And that was most assuredly one of them. 

* * *

Honestly, the plan Jackson and Alex had come up with was nothing short of fucking brilliant, which Stiles could readily admit since he had nothing at all to do with it. 

Unsurprisingly, the plan as a whole was torn apart in veritable seconds, which made sense because when he and Derek had shown up, there had been a very awkward and uncomfortable pause, given Chris Argent was standing in the Hale kitchen with Jackson, Alex, Peter and Parrish, and it was very clear Derek and Stiles had not been warned he would be there. 

Derek had not taken his presence very well, growling and shoving Stiles behind him while Chris took a few steps back with his hands raised. Peter had to explain that he’d invited him, because to be frank, nobody knew the mind of a Collector like a man who’d helped Gerard Argent his entire life. Chris really did have a wealth of knowledge into a world that the others couldn’t even begin to imagine. 

Sure, Alex and Jackson had lived with a Collector, and Stiles had been around Gerard for a few months, but there was just such a different mindset when it was someone who’d been _raised_ to be like the person they were going after. 

Turned out Chris was familiar with the Collector in Montana, and actually mentioned he had coordinates on many more that they could go after if the pack wanted to. His way of trying to make himself useful and prove he was truly on their side, though Peter told him to stick with this plan first and then they could work on his ass-kissing. 

Every time someone suggested something, Chris had about eight different ways it could go sideways, up to and including the complete loss of Jackson and Alex to the depths of Collector trading. He was honestly surprised to hear about how Stiles had gotten Jackson and Alex—and the others—out, and insisted he got extremely lucky because Harris was a Collector he’d never heard of which meant he was a ‘small fry.’

Which was concerning given his level of security. 

But that was also what made the one in Montana so dangerous. Harris was a nobody Collector who happened to get his hands on a bunch of rares. As a nobody, he didn’t have to worry about people coming for his things. The Collector in Montana, a man by the name of Clayton Schrader, was actually very well known, and frequently attacked for what he had in his possession. 

On top of being spectacularly rich—Stiles didn’t understand how all these asshole Collectors were so fucking _rich_ —he also boasted one of the largest ‘collections’ in the world. Chris listed at least twelve different types of Supernaturals, four of which Stiles had never even _heard_ of before. He had top of the line security, a veritable army of security guards, four bodyguards on him at all times, and some of the most impressive technology to keep Supernaturals in line that anyone had ever seen. 

In addition to all that—because that was peanuts, clearly, and nothing at all to be concerned about—he also had a fairly successful trafficking ring for regular Supernaturals. Someone in Washington wanted a Werewolf pet? Schrader could get them one. Someone needed a competitor taken out in the most gruesome way possible without it coming back to them? Schrader had a Supernatural for that. Someone sadistic was interested in maiming, torturing, and potentially killing a Supernatural just for shits and giggles? Schrader could send them something. 

After hearing that, Stiles figured out how the guy made his money, and he almost threw up. Jackson looked resolute, but Stiles could tell even he was a little concerned after hearing how powerful this guy was. 

“I understand you want to help people,” Chris said softly, honestly looking sympathetic. “But you aren’t ready for this guy. There are countless others to start with, but not Schrader. If you’re adamant you want to go after him now, I’ll do what I can to help, but this will not end well. I urge you to reconsider, start with smaller targets, and work your way up to him. He isn’t a man to cross.” 

Stiles glanced at Alex and Jackson. They both looked uncertain, and shared a look. It was obvious they didn’t want to admit defeat, but this was a bit over their heads. None of them were ready for something like this, and Stiles felt like he’d be more of a hindrance than an asset in his current state. 

He didn’t want to admit defeat, and he knew Alex and Jackson didn’t want to, either. But right now, if they went, there was absolutely _no_ guarantee they’d ever make it back out. 

“Do you have any suggestions?” Alex asked, sounding like she hated having to back down, but acknowledging this was beyond them for the moment. 

They’d hit Schrader one day, in the future. But not today. 

“I didn’t come with a list,” Chris admitted. “But if you give me a few hours, and let me know the extent of your abilities and what people have used in the past to keep you compliant, I can find some smaller targets we can use as practice to work our way up to Schrader.” 

“Very well.” Alex nodded. “Shall we reconvene tomorrow?” 

“Sounds good.” Chris pulled his phone out, and Stiles wasn’t sure what he was doing until he said, “I have some free time in the evening, after work. I’ll start looking into it today and should have enough by tomorrow night.” 

“Work?” Stiles asked, despite not wanting to draw attention to himself. “You have a job?” 

“I need to make a living, don’t I?” Chris asked. There was no heat in his voice, but it was clear it hadn’t been easy the past few weeks. Stiles figured that made sense, Chris had grown up in a fucking mansion with his father and all the money he could ever want. Now he had to figure out a way to provide for his daughter while also balancing precariously on the edge of a truce with the Hale pack that he knew could go south at any time. 

“See you tomorrow,” Alex said, inclining her head slightly in farewell. 

Chris took his leave, exiting the house with all eyes but Alex’s watching him. Stiles figured she trusted him after what they’d been through, and Stiles himself had some level of trust for him, but not enough that he wasn’t going to watch his back. 

Honestly, he was kind of relieved this had gone sideways. He wanted more time before he threw himself into the arms of another Collector, and the longer he wore the cuffs, the stronger he would be by the time they worked their way up to Schrader. It was better this way. 

“Those are new, little Spark,” Peter said, making him turn back to the man and glance down at what he was looking at. 

“Oh, yeah. I wanted to cover the scars,” Stiles said. 

Peter shrugged, and when Stiles felt Derek’s eyes burning into the back of his skull, it occurred to him that he’d just _lied_ in a room with three Weres, and _none_ of them had picked up on it. Derek _knew_ that the bands were actually cuffs, and he _knew_ why Stiles had bought them. It definitely wasn’t to cover up scars.

Stiles had no idea how he’d lied so easily without getting caught, but he was glad it had worked out, because he sometimes forgot that the Werewolves knew when he was lying. 

“I suppose we should be taking our leave,” Alex said, standing from the table and glancing at Parrish. He nodded his agreement and Alex turned to Peter. “Thank you, as always, for your hospitality, Peter.” 

“Anytime,” the Werewolf said with a feral grin. “Be sure to come back soon with Rose.” 

“I will.” 

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at Peter while Alex left with Parrish. Jackson grunted something unintelligible before disappearing from the kitchen, his footsteps sounding on the stairs while he headed up to his room, likely to sulk. Once the front door shut, heralding the departure of Alex and Parrish, Stiles raised the other eyebrow at Peter. “Really?” 

“I like children,” Peter insisted. “Why else would I have agreed to keep so many that aren’t my own?” 

Stiles remembered the Hale grave marker, and the name inscribed beneath where Peter’s would go. He felt a pang of guilt, even though he knew Peter’s daughter’s death wasn’t his fault. Peter evidently sensed it, because he waved one hand dismissively and stood. 

“Nephew, would you and the little Spark like to stay for dinner?” 

“Sure,” Stiles replied before Derek could. He knew the second they got home he was going to get a silent lecture for the lie about the cuffs, so the longer they had an audience, the better. 

“That reminds me,” Peter said, moving to the fridge so he could pull it open and start collecting ingredients. “I spoke to the mayor about your idea this morning. About the houses in the Preserve.” He pulled out the biggest slab of cheese Stiles had ever seen, and that made him insanely curious to know what they were having for dinner. “He said it was a good idea, so I’ve started getting all the permits worked out and spoke to Sal about lending some help when he and his guys can spare it.” 

“That’s awesome,” Stiles said with a grin, honestly pleased to hear things were moving along. “How long do you think before everything’s approved and we can get started?”

“Not long, the mayor’s expediting it all as a favour.” Peter grabbed some strawberries out of the fridge next and Stiles frowned, because he was pretty sure cheese and strawberries didn’t mix unless it was in a cheesecake. “Should be able to start construction sooner rather than later. I’m hoping by the end of next week.” 

“That’s so great!” Stiles turned to Derek, who was still staring at him, like the fact that Stiles had lied so _easily_ was of huge concern to him. “Um, need help with dinner?” 

“Thank you, little Spark. Why don’t you get started on the carrots.” 

“Okay seriously, _what_ are you making?” 

Derek’s eyes burned holes into the back of his skull for the rest of the evening. He was _so_ going to hear about that later. 

* * *

Stiles couldn’t stop rubbing at his left wrist over the leather bands he had on, eyes locked on the world outside the window. Derek had turned the cuffs off, but Stiles hadn’t wanted to remove them because he’d have to explain why he’d taken them off, and also why he suddenly had new fresh wounds. It was easier to just turn them off and keep them on. 

The only reason Derek had turned them off was because if he didn’t, Stiles would lose his fucking mind right now. 

They were both sitting in the Mustang about four blocks north of a Collector’s house. Peter and Chris were in a rented van a few blocks south, the four of them staying close but out of sight. 

This was their first hit since their discussion about Schrader in the Hale kitchen, and Stiles was both relieved and terrified at the fact that he wasn’t in the house right now. He was scared for his friends, and he couldn’t believe they were stupid enough to do this. He ignored that _he_ had once been stupid enough to do this too, but he finally felt like he had a firm understanding of Derek’s rage all those months ago when Stiles had stupidly waltzed into a Collector’s house with literally _no plan_. 

“How long has it been?” Stiles asked, looking at Derek, and then back out the windshield again. “It’s been too long. Something went wrong. We should go.” He started to reach for the door so he could climb out, but Derek touched his shoulder and motioned the time on the dash.

It hadn’t even been twenty minutes. This wasn’t going to be a quick in and out, Jackson and Alex didn’t have the same abilities as Stiles. Chris had made sure the two of them had everything they needed to go through with this plan, but Stiles couldn’t help worrying. 

What if something went wrong? What if Jackson got hurt? What if there was secretly a fight club in the basement where Supernaturals were made to fight to the death? What if there was an auction going on _right now_ and he lost Jackson to some guy in Madagascar who wanted a pretty toy to play with?! Jackson was very pretty! 

Derek’s hand was back on his shoulder, squeezing tightly, and he turned to look at him. The Werewolf was examining him closely, then slowly raised his eyebrows. “You good?” the look asked. 

“I can’t believe I did this to you, this _sucks_ ,” he admitted, slouching in his seat and raking both hands through his hair while resting both feet on the dash. Derek made a face at the action, but didn’t tell him to put them down, clearly able to see how stressed and freaked out he was. 

Stiles went back to rubbing at his wrist, obsessively checking the time. It seemed to be going much slower than the counting he was doing in his head, he was sure ten minutes must’ve passed but when his eyes strayed to the dash, it showed only _two_ had passed. 

“I should’ve gone with them,” Stiles insisted. “It was stupid of me not to. Why didn’t I just _go_?” 

Derek reached over and flicked him in the temple, Stiles wincing, but he didn’t comment. He knew what Derek was saying. In the state he was in right now, he wouldn’t have been much use. 

Originally, when planning, Stiles had been factored into the equation. But the more they’d spoken about it, the faster his breathing came until he was almost hyperventilating despite the fact that he was adamant he was going to help, that he could do this. 

Chris was the one who finally told him he wouldn’t be of any use in the state he was in, and as much as Stiles hated admitting it, he wasn’t wrong. While there was no guarantee Stiles would panic and fall apart, it was still entirely likely he would be more of a hindrance than an asset. And considering what they were doing, they couldn’t afford for him to cause problems for Alex and Jackson when things would already be stressful enough. 

“This was supposed to be my calling,” Stiles said quietly, feet still against the dash and arms crossed over them so he could rest his chin against them. He saw Derek look at him out of the corner of his eye, clearly unable to follow his line of thought. Stiles shrugged one shoulder absently. “Saving people. Helping them. Giving them a safe place to stay.” He scoffed slightly. “Some great saviour I am, can’t even be on the front lines without hyperventilating.” 

Derek’s flick was harder this time, clearly a demand for him to stop being so hard on himself. He couldn’t help it though, and he knew it was partly because he was panicking about his friends. If something terrible happened to them, and it could’ve been avoided if only he’d entered the house with them, he would be fucking devastated. 

But it was more than that, too. Because while not many people had shown up yet, Alex’s words a few weeks back were slowly but surely coming true. People were coming, and Stiles felt like a huge disappointment. He didn’t even go out and meet them, not necessarily because he didn’t _want_ to, but because Peter and Derek didn’t think it was a good idea to have him out and about when they weren’t sure of everyone’s intentions. 

So far things seemed to be working out well. They had about seven or eight people show up, and they seemed nice and willing to take whatever small amount of safety they could gain. The thing Stiles hated the most was that people thought Peter was the Alpha because he was the one doing all the heavy lifting. Stiles saw how much he hated that, because it was clear Peter had a lot of respect for his nephew, but given his current restrictions, it wasn’t like Derek was in any position to welcome new people and get them set up. He went to meet them, but it wasn’t like he really _spoke_ to them. 

Besides, Stiles felt like Peter was the better option for vetting people. He could make anyone uncomfortable enough to spew all their dark secrets. 

When Derek’s head snapped to the side, Stiles jumped and instantly went to lock his door, even though it was already locked. 

“What is it?” Stiles demanded, leaning over him to see out his window. 

Derek said nothing, he just frowned, like he’d heard something, but there was no one there. Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him, then sat back, trying to calm down and get his heart back to a normal rhythm. He wasn’t stupid enough to think seeing nothing meant there was nothing there, but they were safe in the car and he had a shield around it. Nothing was getting in. 

He was fine. They were both fine. 

It seemed to take an eternity for his phone to go off and it startled a year off his lifespan. He dug it out of his pocket to check it, and sighed with relief, exhaling slowly while ballooning his cheeks when he saw it was Jackson. 

**[Jackson]**  
success come pick me up i’m too pretty to be left out here

“Let’s go,” Stiles said, even though Derek had already started the car and was easing back onto the road. 

It didn’t take them long to reach the house, and when they did, Stiles was a little underwhelmed at the reception. 

Alex and Jackson were there, looking none the worse for wear, but Stiles had expected a few more people with them. To be fair, he knew when he’d broken people out of Harris’, only one had walked away with him, but he’d been hopeful that people would want to stick together so they wouldn’t end up having to find their way back like Alex had. 

Peter was already there, the van he’d rented for this particular evening parked on the small cobblestone drive, and Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of his posture. He almost looked like he felt threatened, and his face was twisted into something—not unkind, but still not entirely devoid of hostility. 

“That’s weird,” Stiles muttered as Derek stopped the car. Stiles unbuckled his seatbelt, and the second his door was open, Derek leaned over and practically wrenched Stiles back into the car before slamming it shut. He nearly caught Stiles’ fingers. “Hey! Wha—”

He cut off when he turned to Derek, because he looked tense. His face was neutral, but he didn’t look pleased, and when he flashed red eyes, Stiles understood. 

Because he looked out at the three people standing with Alex and Jackson, and the twins with them flashed red eyes back. 

Oh. That explained Peter. 

Stiles turned back to Derek, squeezed at the forearm attached to the hand still gripping him tightly, and nodded his head out the windshield. 

“They don’t look like people you should be worried about,” he insisted quietly. 

Derek turned to give him an incredulous look, eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. 

“I just mean—they were caged, same as us. They’re not about to bite the hand that feeds. We got them out, let’s just hear what they have to say.” 

Derek very emphatically jabbed at Stiles’ seat, a clear, “You are staying _right here_.” 

“Can I at least roll down the window?” 

It looked like he wanted to say no, but Stiles gave him a look and Derek growled before jabbing at the seat again and undoing his seatbelt so he could climb out of the car. Stiles rolled the window down just enough that he could hear properly, but didn’t press his luck any further. Derek was already keeping one eye on him and the other on the twins.

“Nephew,” Peter said almost formally, his voice a growl. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the twins. “Mr. Whittemore is attempting to get disowned.” 

“We can’t just leave them, where are they supposed to go?” Jackson demanded angrily. 

Alex was standing a bit off to the side with another person—Stiles had no idea what they were, but they kind of looked a bit like Ben, the Mer-dude from Harris’ place, so he figured that was likely what they were. Instead of inky black skin though, theirs was a pale sort of coral colour. 

The two of them seemed more than happy to stay out of the debate.

It looked like the argument about the twins had started long before Derek and Stiles had shown up, because Peter and Jackson seemed to be repeating things they’d already said. 

Stiles leaned a bit closer to the windshield, eyes on the twins. They looked kind of like Derek in this moment. Thin and lacking muscle, sallow skin and haunted eyes. Clearly, they had been through a lot. 

One of them was staring at Peter angrily, like he was two seconds away from ripping his face off. The other was looking curiously at Stiles, like he was trying to figure out why he hadn’t exited the car. 

He was sure the guy would figure it out sooner rather than later. 

Peter and Jackson were still going at it when Derek finally held one hand up in a clear bid for silence. It didn’t seem to be working, so Stiles leaned over and lay on the horn. Everyone went silent, and Derek turned to give him a scathing look, motioning the houses around them. Stiles just flailed back at him before flipping him off. 

The houses were all huge and set a decent distance from one another, as mansions should be—seriously, _why_ were all Collectors _rich_?!—and he doubted anyone was going to call the cops on people who were clearly being held against their will. And if any of the neighbours were also Collectors, well, they’d need to keep their heads down in light of what was going on right now. 

Derek turned back to the twins, and motioned them both. Stiles leaned closer to his window so he could hear them while they spoke. 

They introduced themselves as Ethan and Aiden, and were in their mid-twenties. They were Alpha Werewolves, but that hadn’t been by choice for either of them. They went through a bit of their history, but it was clear they weren’t being particularly forthcoming since they had no idea who their saviours were and likely didn’t fully trust them. 

“We won’t cause trouble,” Ethan said, even as his brother scoffed and crossed his arms, clearly thinking this entire thing was beneath them. “Jackson and Alex said you helped people like us. We just want to be left alone.” 

“‘People like us’ is reserved for people like Jackson and Alex,” Peter informed them coldly. “I’m sure there are many packs out there in need of an Alpha. Or two. We certainly don’t need three.” 

“They’re like us,” Alex said, somewhat quietly. Stiles barely heard her, but the Weres had no problems. Peter cocked an eyebrow at her and she nodded once. She didn’t explain, but she repeated, “They’re like us.” 

Peter inhaled deeply, both hands pressed together and against his lips, then closed his eyes and exhaled everything in one harsh breath. He dropped his hands, opened his eyes, and looked at Derek. 

Stiles couldn’t see his face, given the Alpha’s back was to him, but he must’ve done something because Jackson scowled and crossed his arms, clearly annoyed. 

“I don’t speak eyebrow,” he snapped. 

Peter inclined his head slightly before adding, “I am not as fluent as I would like.” 

Even from behind, Stiles saw the sigh before Derek turned to him, nodding his head to the twins and raising his eyebrows. 

“They can come for now, but verdict’s still out on if they can stay,” he explained loudly from the car. 

“What are you, his interpreter?” Aiden sneered. 

“Never you mind,” Peter said in that faux-jovial tone he always sported when he was stressed or mad, moving up to Aiden and slapping one hand on his shoulder, squeezing probably harder than was necessary. “Shall we go before we attract unwanted attention? You two are with Chris and I. The other one too. Jackson, you and Alex can bother my nephew for the duration of the ride home.” 

“Fine,” Jackson snapped, but Stiles could tell he seemed a little smug. He didn’t miss the small shared look between Ethan—at least, he thought that one was Ethan—and his friend before they split off towards the two cars. 

The Mer-person seemed very distressed at being split up from Alex, which made it difficult for them to divvy the cars up in a way people were happy with. In the end, Alex was willing to risk the twin Alphas and just joined Chris and Peter in the van, so that Jackson was the only one to slide into the back of the Mustang. 

“This car sucks, there’s no leg room. Compensating?” 

Derek bared his teeth at Jackson in the rear-view mirror, but the other man ignored him while buckling himself in. Apparently he’d learned better than to drive without buckling in given what had happened the last time, even though he’d admitted to hating feeling restricted. 

“So that was fun,” Stiles said, looking over his shoulder. “What about the Mer-person?” 

“That’s Emmi,” Jackson said as Peter pulled out first. “She just needs a ride, she isn’t staying.” 

“Fair. How many were in there?” 

“Only seven.” 

“You were ‘only’ five,” Stiles reminded him, and Jackson seemed to consider that. 

Every person they saved was still one person they _saved_. It’d be nice to hit a house with twenty, thirty, _forty_ people, but even saving one was enough. 

When Derek started to pull away, Stiles saw Jackson staring back at the house, an angry furrow to his brows and his fists clenched. Stiles knew the feeling, because he kind of agreed. But it wasn’t their place to play judge, jury and executioner. Peter was in charge of calling the police when they got far enough away, given Jackson’s Kanima venom wouldn’t wear off for a few hours yet, but unfortunately they weren’t guaranteed punishment. 

Money spoke volumes, after all. 

When they turned the corner at the end of the road, Stiles frowned when he noticed a group of non-descript black SUVs rounding the bend at the other end, looking like they were headed for the house they’d just vacated. It was a bit out of place for the area, and the dead of night, but he didn’t dwell on it. They were already gone, if this was backup, they were too late.

Besides, he was much more interested in grinning at Jackson. 

“So. What was with the look?” 

“Look? What look?” Jackson demanded grumpily. 

“You know,” Stiles insisted, waggling his eyebrows. “The _look_. Between you and Ethan. Or Aiden?” 

“Shut your face,” Jackson snapped, kicking at the back of Stiles’ seat. Derek let out a loud growl, a clear command for him not to wreck the car. Jackson flipped him off and Stiles faced forward again with a small smirk on his face. 

Now that the stress of the evening was over, and their first official attempt at doing this was a success, he was going to have the best time teasing the unholy _shit_ out of Jackson. 

He ignored that he only recognized the look Jackson had given Ethan was because he knew he sported the same expression every single time he looked at Derek. 

Love fucking sucked. 

* * *

Chris had a lot of resources at his disposal as an ex-Hunter, and Stiles was more than a little relieved that the first three places they’d hit had been simple enough that his services weren’t required. He and Derek always went, of course, but they did the same as they had on the first run, waiting out of sight a few blocks over for the all clear. 

Jackson and Alex were getting really good at it. By the time they went on their third run together, they were in and out within two hours, tops. Alex also seemed to have perfected her speech, because more often than not, more people stuck around for the trip back to Beacon Hills. 

She’d admitted her first attempt when they’d picked up the twins hadn’t been all that stellar, and she’d since been working on it to try and convey how much they all really wanted to help. 

Peter complained about needing to buy a fucking school bus. Stiles figured that eventually, he might actually have to. 

Stiles knew he needed to get back in there and start helping sooner rather than later, but for the moment, he still wasn’t exactly at his best. Still, he went, and he helped where he could, like casting protective spells and tracking spells on his two packmates—just in case. He still wasn’t comfortable going with them, but he knew he’d have to get over that eventually. It was a slow process, and he couldn’t rush his own recovery or he’d just fuck himself up more mentally than he already was. 

Stiles tried to spend more time with the rest of the original pack as time passed. They were into the second week of February by now, and things had calmed down somewhat. They had a lot of new potential packmates, and ever since Peter had gotten the permits sorted out with the mayor, Sal the construction worker and some of his guys had been helping out along with the rest of the pack to get the houses in the Preserve up and running. 

They already had one fully built with only a few last touches needed before it was move-in ready, and had already started on the second one. Apparently Erica was extremely talented at installing windows, who knew? 

The only bump in their otherwise smooth month so far was that Scott and Allison had started kind of dancing around each other, much to everyone’s dismay. They weren’t _dating_ , but they’d started spending a lot of time together. Sometimes Stiles went over to Scott’s to hang out, and Allison joined them, though he never told Derek that. He felt like Derek would probably murder his own Beta if he found out he’d been inviting Allison over while Stiles was there. 

Stiles honestly didn’t mind her, though. Yes, she was attached to a traumatic part of his life, but he knew he was never going to get over what had happened without trying. Being friendly with Allison was a step in the right direction, in his opinion. 

And that was made easy given Derek had stopped being a Were-leech and actually let him breathe every now and then. 

Actually, Derek had started giving him a bit more space in general. It was obvious he didn’t like it, but he seemed to recognize that they both needed some time apart every now and then. Stiles usually hung around with Kira, Scott or Parrish. Derek tended to retreat to his sister, Boyd and Erica, and occasionally Isaac. 

Jackson tended to split his time between the two of them, bouncing back and forth. Stiles knew that if he found out about Allison that he’d tattle so whenever he went to hang out with Scott, he told Jackson to hang out with Derek. He knew both of them would be _pissed_ if they found out, but Allison was already suffering enough because of her family. He didn’t think it would be fair to punish her further to the point where she wasn’t even allowed to have friends. 

Thankfully, Scott wasn’t the only one who’d been making an effort with her. Lydia had come over unannounced one day while Stiles, Scott and Allison had been watching a movie in Scott’s mother’s living room, and it had taken a _while_ to convince her not to tell anyone. Stiles was fairly certain the only reason they succeeded was because she and Allison actually seemed to have a lot in common, and they got along fairly well. Lydia started dropping by a bit more often on purpose, which was kind of a relief for Stiles, because he knew Allison was starting to feel isolated. It wasn’t her fault her family was crazy, at least she and her father were good people. 

Stiles had also started getting back into the habit of reading magic books. He knew the core seven, but there were so many others that he didn’t. He’d even found the book that explained how he froze time—it was apparently Fae magic, who knew? 

Unfortunately for him, Fae magic wasn’t widely documented, so the instructions on how to replicate it were a little wishy-washy. He did his best, but so far barring the one time he’d stopped Derek from ruining his train car, he hadn’t been able to replicate it. He still hadn’t found the book explaining the teleportation, though he _had_ found one that was particularly gruesome and explained in excruciating detail how he could drown someone from the inside out. 

He’d very quickly put that book down and made note to stay away from any more books similar in nature.

Occasionally he’d pick one up with more notes in the margins from Peter, reminding him that Derek was _still_ cursed. It wasn’t that Stiles had forgotten, it was more that he was trying to fix himself before he could focus on fixing Derek.

Not that Derek was _broken_ or anything, but he just... really wanted him to get his voice back. He wanted to hear Derek speak, say his name, tell him about his life. He wanted Derek to go back to how he was, when he could make phone calls, and laugh and joke around, and have a job because he could actually communicate like a real human being. 

Stiles wanted him to have his life back, even if he didn’t have a part in it. He knew that was unlikely, given how reliant they both were on one another, but even if he wasn’t in it, he just wanted Derek to be happy. 

After the life he’d lived, Derek deserved to be happy. 

And he was currently very _unhappy_ , because Stiles still had the cuffs on twenty-four-seven. He knew Derek was playing with the controls every now and then, because sometimes he’d feel cold all over and then completely fine the next day. Occasionally he’d see Derek with his phone out, watching him, like he was making sure he wasn’t going too far.

Which was ridiculous, since they both already knew his baseline was ninety-seven, and Stiles wished he’d just get there already. The slow build was honestly fucking killing him, he’d rather start there and move upwards. 

He knew when they’d finally reached a little above his baseline. Maybe ninety-eight, maybe ninety-nine, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was at his baseline for about two days, feeling miserable and weak and tired, but still able to do most spells without too much trouble—though with heavy exhaustion and magic deficiency by the end of the night—and then he was heading up the stairs to grab clothes so he could shower when he swayed. 

It was subtle, the shift. Nothing he hadn’t experienced before with Gerard, but he wasn’t expecting it. He grabbed the railing hard with both hands, trying to stop his stomach from revolting, and slowly sat down on the steps, clenching his eyes shut. He heard creaking from downstairs, Derek getting up off the couch, and then soft footsteps climbing the steps. 

To his credit, Derek didn’t lower the power. Previously, the second Stiles showed any signs of discomfort, Derek immediately lowered it and then the two of them argued for close to ten minutes about it. Today was the first time Derek actually kept it where it was. 

Stiles heard him sit on the step below him, one hand reaching out and resting lightly on his closest thigh, squeezing in comfort. He let out a slow breath and opened his eyes, forcing a smile. 

“I’m okay,” he promised. “Just a bit... I guess I got used to ninety-seven. Gonna take a bit to get used to ninety-eight.” 

Derek watched him for a long while, eyes shifting back and forth across every line of Stiles’ face. He still had his phone in his other hand, and when Stiles nudged him lightly and went to stand up again, the worst of it having passed, Derek’s hand squeezed his thigh again and he paused. 

There was a brief moment of hesitation, and then Derek held his phone up. Stiles sat back down, taking it from him, and stared at the power level. 

One-hundred. 

Stiles was currently sitting at one-hundred. 

“Oh.” It was all he could think to say. “I guess that’s the top then.” 

It was a stupid thing to say, but he was honestly surprised. He hadn’t felt much different over the past few days. Maybe a little more tired than usual, but that was kind of the norm for him since the cuffs went back on. He hadn’t felt _more_ tired than he had the past few weeks, so he was kind of surprised that he hadn’t noticed Derek going up past his baseline. 

“I guess I can take them off at the end of February,” Stiles said, staring down at them. It was weird to realize that he was actually kind of getting used to them. That was a good thing, but still strange. He wondered how powerful his mother had been in her prime. 

He wondered how much more powerful _he_ was going to become. It was something he hadn’t really thought of, but he wouldn’t deny liking the thought. 

Derek took his phone back and removed his hand, letting Stiles stand and watching him while he continued on his way up the stairs. He definitely felt like shit, and almost too tired for the shower he’d been about to get ready for, but he forced himself to do it anyway, grabbing clothes and heading back downstairs once Derek moved out of the way.

He was in the shower when their visitor arrived, but he didn’t miss the moment he entered the loft. Barrier aside, Jackson was pretty loud when he wanted to be, and he made himself comfortable as he often did. Stiles exited the bathroom in his pyjamas to find Jackson lounging on the couch with his feet on the coffee table and stuffing one of _Stiles’_ cookies into his mouth. 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than steal my food?” Stiles demanded. “Where’s your new buddy?” 

“Don’t be jealous, Stilinski,” Jackson said, throwing a smarmy smirk his way over the back of the couch. “You’re still just as pretty.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and didn’t deem that worthy of a response, heading for the stairs with his laundry to put it in the hamper. 

Jackson and Ethan had been spending a _lot_ of time together. Usually when Stiles was with Scott and Derek was with Boyd or something. Jackson didn’t like being left to his own devices, so he and Ethan had started hanging out more. Stiles liked to tease him because it was clear he was really into him. 

He also finally earned the honour of finding out why the twins were so coveted and rare. After all, at first glance, there was nothing special about them. They were Werewolves, like Derek, or Peter, or Scott. Nothing special at all. The _special_ aspect came about when the two of them went into their Alpha form. They could merge together, creating one huge beast of a man. Peter, who had previously been nothing but hostile towards the twins, suddenly changed his tune and was ecstatic when he found out, because he’d only read about it, and had thought it was bullshit. He was extremely pleased to discover it was a real thing.

Derek had been a little less enthusiastic, because there were now two other Alpha Werewolves in his territory, and they could turn into something much larger and stronger than him. The twins were adamant they didn’t want to cause any trouble—well, _Ethan_ was adamant, Aiden was still a bit of a dick. But, they agreed to submit to Derek—much as it clearly hurt their pride—as long as he let them stay. So he did, though begrudgingly. But Derek wasn’t going to turn someone away when they needed help, so Stiles wasn’t surprised. 

And because of the confirmation that they would be staying, Jackson had started getting a little _friendly_ with Ethan. They might not have been around for very long, but Stiles had eyes. He could tell Jackson and Ethan were interested in one another. 

Aiden was the problem, because he didn’t try very hard to make friendly with anyone. 

Except Lydia. 

Which was making Cora extra protective, and was liable to end in bloodshed. Stiles really hoped Aiden didn’t make a move on her. He may have been an Alpha, but Cora was particularly vicious. He’d seen her spar with Derek, she was not someone to piss off. 

“So I have a question for you,” Jackson said when Stiles wandered back downstairs. Derek was sitting in Stiles’ desk chair, clearly having been kicked off the couch, and he looked up with a frown when Jackson spoke. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, wandering over and shoving at Jackson’s legs to make him move them. When he didn’t, Stiles just turned to sit down on them, which Jackson didn’t seem happy about, but he still didn’t move them. 

“Are you free tomorrow?” 

“I’m always free,” Stiles reminded him. “Why?” 

“Want to grab dinner tomorrow?” 

Stiles noticed Derek straighten in his chair, the book he’d been reading snapping shut. Stiles didn’t pay him any attention. Jackson and Derek had been acting weird lately. They were obviously still friends, but they were a bit more aggressive with each other than they usually were. He didn’t know why, but figured it was a Werewolf thing. 

“Sure.” Stiles shrugged. 

Jackson’s smirk was two-thirds condescending, one-third mischievous. “I’ll pick you up at six. Wear something nice.” 

Stiles cocked an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“I’m taking you somewhere nice. Got some money from a piece I did for the newspaper the other day—”

“Wait, you have a job?” Stiles asked incredulously. 

“Yeah, some of us actually _contribute_ to society,” Jackson said, sounding offended. Stiles supposed he deserved that, though Jackson hadn’t actually mentioned he was working. Based on what he’d said, it didn’t sound like a permanent thing, likely just writing a column in the paper every now and then. Still, he was glad to hear it. “Anyway, I made a pretty penny, so I figured I’d spoil you on Valentine’s Day.” 

Stiles’ stomach bottomed out at the last two words. 

Valentine’s Day. Tomorrow was Valentine’s? He’d had no idea. He didn’t really keep track of the days, except when it came to Derek’s birthday and the anniversary of his father’s death—and consequently, his meeting of Derek. Hell, he didn’t even pay attention to his _own_ birthday. He hadn’t realized tomorrow was Valentine’s. 

Sure, he and Derek weren’t together or anything, but he still kind of wanted to spend _Valentine’s Day_ with him as if they _were_ something. He knew it would only hurt him more than anything, but still. 

Stiles didn’t say anything, because he wasn’t sure _what_ to say. He knew Jackson wasn’t asking him out, he’d made it clear a while ago Stiles was attractive, but not his type, so he knew this was just the two of them hanging out as friends. 

But for some reason, Jackson was staring intently at Derek after his last statement, as if daring him to veto the dinner. Stiles turned to look at him, and kind of wished he would. A part of him wanted Derek to insist Stiles was spending the day with _him_ , because it was Valentine’s Day and he was _not_ spending it without Stiles. 

Derek was clenching the book in his hands so tightly that Stiles was positive he might rip right through it. He looked extremely unhappy, eyes flashing red, but when he saw Stiles looking, he forced his gaze away from Jackson and stood up. Throwing the book rather violently on the desk, he stalked towards the door, threw it open, and exited the loft, slamming it shut behind him. 

Stiles just stared, having absolutely no idea what the fuck was going on. 

“I was so sure that’d work,” Jackson muttered. Stiles didn’t think he was supposed to hear it, because when he turned to the other man, Jackson was kicking his feet to get them out from under Stiles and he stood, stretching lazily. 

“I’ll pick you up at six. Wear something nice.” 

“Sure,” Stiles said, because what else _could_ he say? 

Jackson left the loft, and Stiles listened until he heard his car start and drive off outside. Derek didn’t come back, which meant he was still downstairs. Stiles didn’t understand why he got so mad, though he _did_ feel bad. He hadn’t planned on Derek spending Valentine’s Day alone, he just honestly hadn’t realized that was tomorrow. If he had, he probably would’ve come up with some lie about why he couldn’t go to dinner. 

He’d gotten really good at lying to Werewolves, he figured it was part of his magic. 

Stiles rubbed absently at the cuffs still around his wrists, knowing he shouldn’t head to bed yet, but he was tired, and tomorrow was going to be a really weird day. He figured he could make Derek breakfast and they could go out for lunch together. Maybe he could make up for ditching him for dinner. 

Heading up to bed, Stiles crawled under the covers after turning off the light, the one downstairs still illuminating a large portion of the upper level. He closed his eyes for sleep, hugging Derek’s pillow while he waited for the Werewolf to join him. 

He fell asleep before he did, but Stiles woke up with a start when the bed dipped, heart lodging itself in his throat. Derek’s hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting, calmed him instantly, as did the red eyes staring down at him. Stiles found it strange to realize that red eyes were comforting to him, when for others they were the eyes of a monster. 

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. He relinquished his hold on the pillow, Derek putting it where it belonged and lying down. Stiles curled into him instantly, inhaling deeply once he was pressed into Derek’s chest. God, he smelled good. Stiles couldn’t even describe it, it was just something purely _Derek_ , and it smelled like home, and safety, and love, and protection, and God he loved Derek. 

He fucking loved him so much, it _ached_. 

Derek wrapped his arms around him tightly, squeezing just a touch too hard for a second before releasing his hold to something more comfortable. Stiles could feel Derek’s lips against the crown of his head, but he was already on his way back to unconsciousness with how safe and comfortable he felt, so he didn’t have time to dwell on it. 

He passed back out before Derek’s lips had left his skin. 

* * *

Stiles woke up first the next morning, and it was a challenge trying to sneak out of bed. Not only was he in bed with a Werewolf, but he was in bed with a Werewolf-octopus _hybrid_ , apparently, because Derek refused to let him go. 

This happened a lot when Stiles woke up first, and he usually had to poke Derek awake when his bladder threatened to release right there in bed. He didn’t _want_ to wake Derek up today, because he had plans for him. 

Sure, Stiles knew this thing they had was completely one-sided, but for one day, he wanted to just enjoy what they had, regardless of what it was. Derek was his best friend, he was his protector, he was his crush, he was literally his everything. For today, he just wanted to _be_ with him, even if it wasn’t how he wanted.

It took some doing, but he finally managed to wiggle his way out of bed, shoving his pillow into the void he’d left behind. Derek scowled and huffed once in his sleep, clearly able to tell what he was hugging wasn’t Stiles, but he didn’t wake up. Stiles couldn’t help the small laugh and he took a picture with his phone, because Derek was fucking adorable. 

He set the picture as his background while slowly heading down the stairs, then dropped the phone on the table before going to the bathroom. He relieved himself and brushed his teeth, then splashed some water on his face to wake up a bit more. He detoured to the couch to grab one of the throws, wrapping it around his shoulders and trying to warm up. He knew it was because of the cuffs, but he felt another small thrill race through him at the reminder that he was at the top setting. 

While he wanted to try magic right away, he was smart enough not to risk it while Derek was sleeping. He could imagine trying something mundane and passing out. If he did that, Derek would take the cuffs off and hide them forever, and Stiles wasn’t willing to let that happen when he was _so close_. 

He idly wondered about what other things existed out in the world meant to contain him. He pulled out ingredients while he thought about it, and figured maybe once he was good with the cuffs, he and Derek could work on something else. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to spend his life weak and exhausted with magic deficiency, but he definitely didn’t want to end up somewhere with an unknown weapon keeping him hostage. 

Halfway through the pancakes being made, Stiles heard Derek get up. He knew Derek didn’t _have_ to make it known he was awake, considering he was a Werewolf and all, but Stiles appreciated that he always made a bit of noise so that he wouldn’t have a heart attack when the guy showed up in the kitchen. 

Derek disappeared into the bathroom first, giving Stiles enough time to pile a plate with pancakes and syrup. He brought it to the table with some whipped cream and chocolate chips, then hurried back to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee, bringing that out as well. He hoped he wasn’t being horribly obvious in his very strong feelings for Derek, but to be fair, they’d always kind of been like this. 

And he figured Derek would assume he was trying to make up for whatever he thought he’d done the night before. Which he kind of was, except Stiles still didn’t know what he’d done, aside from agreeing to dinner with Jackson. Maybe Derek was upset he’d be spending Valentine’s Day alone? Well, the evening part, anyway.

Stiles waited for Derek to exit the bathroom before heading back to the kitchen to make more pancakes. It took him an additional two minutes, and when he opened the door, Derek paused, eying Stiles suspiciously. 

“What?” Stiles asked. “That’s not the expression I was expecting! More something like adoration and devotion for having made you breakfast.” Stiles motioned the food and coffee with flair. “Something sweet for the sweetest day of the year, or whatever.” 

Derek snorted, but he did smile a bit, moving forward. He patted Stiles’ cheek once lightly, then sat down and cocked an eyebrow, giving Stiles a look before motioning the chocolate chips and whipped cream. 

“I thought you might like a change,” Stiles insisted. “I only poured syrup on the top one, the other layers should be safe for some chocolatey goodness and whipped cream if you want them. If not, more for me.” 

He grinned and turned to head back for the kitchen. He was pouring batter into the pan, having moved it back onto the heat since he’d removed it when he’d left the kitchen, and turned to set the bowl down when he jumped, almost dropping it. 

Derek was standing in the entrance, plate in one hand while he forked pieces of pancake into his mouth. He was leaning against the jamb, watching him, and it occurred to Stiles that maybe he didn’t want to eat breakfast alone. Sure, it was nice having someone make it for him, but what was the point if he ate it by himself? 

“Almost done,” he promised, motioning the three already made pancakes on a plate beside him. “Three more, maybe. I figured you’d want a few more after those ones.” 

Derek just shrugged in response and Stiles grinned, turning back to the pan to flip the pancake when enough bubbles had formed on the visible surface. He made quick work of the last few, getting them all on his plate, and then grabbed his own half-finished mug of coffee before motioning for Derek to head back out to the table.

The Werewolf had already devoured four of his five pancakes, and Stiles dropped an additional three onto his plate. He couldn’t eat more than three himself, and Werewolves were human garburators, so he knew Derek could eat eight of them easy. 

Unfair that they ate like that and never had to work out. 

“So, I was thinking,” Stiles said, putting more whipped cream than necessary on his pancake and then shoving a huge bite into his mouth. He worried he’d have whipped cream coming out of his nose, but he managed not to embarrass himself too badly. Not that Derek hadn’t seen worse from him. “We should do something different today.” 

Derek’s eyebrow cock while he chewed said, “Like what?” 

“I don’t know.” Stiles shrugged, cutting another piece of whipped-cream covered pancake and adding a few extra chocolate chips onto his fork. “Go out and do something. Like, go bowling, or go-carting or something. Just the two of us.” 

Derek tapped his fork once on his plate, and a small smile crossed his lips. Stiles grinned, pleased with this, and continued shoving large pieces of pancake into his mouth. He didn’t really have a plan for the day, he just kind of wanted to spend it with Derek doing something fun. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as they did it together. 

After breakfast, they both got dressed and ready for the day, and then left the loft. Stiles was scrolling through movie times on his phone, and when he found one that seemed interesting to both of them, he noticed it was starting soon so they headed to the theatre to catch it. 

Stiles was still relatively cold from the magic deficiency, but it was tolerable. Still, he used it as an excuse to lean into Derek, not that the Werewolf seemed to care. He wrapped an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and the two of them watched the movie together. It wasn’t as good as Stiles had been hoping, but it was still fun. He and Derek never really went out much, consequence of what Stiles was, so it was nice having a day where they just _did_ something. 

Once they were done with the movie, they headed into town to grab lunch, though before they got there, Kira texted Stiles to say she had to bail out on a pottery class she’d signed up for with her dad at the high school. She figured maybe Stiles and Derek would want it and he jumped on the opportunity, because it was something new and different. Derek just rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he turned the car around to head for the high school. 

Stiles was _terrible_ at pottery, as he quickly found out, but nothing could compare to how much fun he had attempting to make a bowl. Derek ended up having to help him, because apparently the guy was perfect at fucking everything. Stiles would hate him if he didn’t fucking love him so much. 

They left their names and numbers with the teacher, along with the colour of glaze they wanted on their bowls, since the workshop had only been for the initial bowl-making and nothing further. Stiles was looking forward to having the two bowls in the loft, it was something they’d shared together, much like the place they lived. It was weirdly domestic and amazing. 

His stomach was _dying_ by the time they got back into the car and they went to their usual diner for lunch. Boyd was working, but he didn’t do more than wave at them when they entered, clearly ascertaining that they wanted to be left alone for one day. Stiles very adamantly told Derek that _he_ was paying, which seemed to amuse him, but at least he didn’t argue. 

They had a nice, quiet and relaxing lunch together, enjoying each other’s company and Stiles keeping the conversation on the lighter side. He ordered a brownie sundae for dessert, really needing the sugar for his magic deficiency, and made a mental note to ask Satomi what else worked because he didn’t want to give himself diabetes. 

Derek ended up eating half the sundae anyway, so at least he was still half a sundae away from being a diabetic. 

They headed home after that, since Stiles was still pretty tired with the cuffs, and he didn’t want to be a snooze for his dinner with Jackson, even though he’d honestly rather stay home with Derek.

And not because he was tired. 

When they got back, Stiles didn’t really feel like doing anything too strenuous, so he just leaned back against the arm of the sofa and read _Treasure Island_. He’d started it a few times, but something always happened that made him stop and he forgot about it for a while. It was a good book though, he could see why Derek liked it. 

Derek, for his part, had pulled his new guitar out and was strumming at it. Stiles hadn’t heard him use it much since he got back, but the opportunity for calm, relaxing, quiet time hadn’t really come up before today. So now they were both sitting on the couch, Stiles sideways and Derek properly, doing their own thing. 

Stiles frowned a little while later when he realized Derek wasn’t so much strumming as he was actually _playing_. He lowered the book to stare at him, trying to place the song, but unable to. He wondered if it was one Derek had just made up, because it didn’t sound familiar. 

The melody was soft, kind of soothing. It repeated itself every thirty seconds, suggesting it was some kind of chorus, and Stiles watched Derek’s fingers move along the guitar while he played. When they stopped a couple of minutes later, Stiles looked up into Derek’s face and saw the Werewolf staring back at him. 

“Sorry,” Stiles said, unsure of why he was apologizing. “I’ve never heard that song before. Did you write it?” 

Derek looked uncomfortable, maybe a touch embarrassed, which was answer enough. 

“It’s good. I like it. It’s calming.” 

The small smile he got in response melted his heart a little bit. 

Fucking hell, he was so gone for this asshole. Stiles didn’t know what he was going to do. He wished he’d never realized how much he loved him. Wished he’d just continued to think they were best friends and nothing more. 

It was slowly going to kill him being so close, and yet so fucking far. 

Clearing his throat, he brought the book back up to continue reading, muttering that Derek should keep playing. He did, his fingers plucking gently at the strings, filling the loft with soft music. It really was calming, and soothing. Stiles really liked it. He liked it even more when he realized Derek could honestly express himself with the guitar. It still wasn’t a voice, but it was something, at least. 

Stiles ended up falling asleep on the couch, drifting off to the soft sound of Derek playing the guitar. He woke with a small start hours later, Derek’s hand on his calf which had found its way onto his lap. 

Inhaling deeply and rubbing his face with both hands, Stiles sat up, _Treasure Island_ falling onto his lap and making him lose his page. “What time is it?” 

Derek nodded towards the cable box and Stiles saw it was quarter to six. Jackson would be showing up in a few minutes. 

Stiles kind of wished Derek had let him sleep through his dinner. 

“Right. Jackson.” He threw his feet over the side of the couch and stood with a stretch. When he glanced back at Derek, the Werewolf looked a little put out, but didn’t say anything. Stiles waited just to be sure, but Derek kept his eyes on his guitar and started strumming Smoke on the Water. 

Figuring he wasn’t going to get an answer to the question he hadn’t even asked, Stiles headed for the stairs to get dressed. He didn’t really have anything _nice_ , per se, but he had a pair of black slacks and Derek had some nice button-downs. He stole one of them and then pulled his sneakers on, since he didn’t have better shoes. 

He headed back downstairs once he was dressed and fell down beside Derek. 

“Good enough?” 

Derek barely glanced over at him before grunting, frowning down at his guitar while he continued playing the same chords of the song. Stiles figured it didn’t matter how he looked, wasn’t like he was dressing to impress. 

He sat watching Derek play up until a car pulled into the front lot. He noticed Derek tense at the sound, but Stiles stood and went to check the window. It was Peter’s car, which made sense since Jackson didn’t have his own. Technically speaking, Jackson didn’t even have a license, but he was part Werewolf and had good reflexes, so Peter had been letting him use his car while he worked on getting his official license. Stiles figured it wouldn’t take him long. 

So long as Parrish didn’t find out, anyway. He’d definitely put a stop to it, but Stiles was pretty sure he thought Jackson had a license, because he seemed to forget sometimes that he’d grown up in a glass prison. 

“I guess I’ll see you later,” Stiles said. 

Derek made a noise at the back of his throat, but didn’t glance up. Stiles headed for the door, unlocking it and sliding it open. He turned, hesitating, then said, “You should go see Cora or something. Maybe Kira. You know, have dinner with someone.” 

He got a look for that so Stiles just shrugged. “It was a thought. I’ll see you after dinner.” 

No response this time, Derek looking back at his guitar and strumming at it. 

Stiles felt guilty when he shut the sliding door, but he didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t bail on Jackson after agreeing to go.

When he headed down the stairs, the front door unlocked and opened, Jackson stepping into the bottom part of the building. He looked almost exasperated when he saw Stiles heading down the stairs, and he was about to defend his outfit choice when Jackson’s words cut his thoughts short. 

“You’re so fucking stupid. I swear, I have to do everything myself.” 

“What?” Stiles asked, confused. 

“Nothing.” He motioned for Stiles to hurry up. “Come on, I got us a reservation, and they’re not gonna hold it on Valentine’s Day.” 

Stiles followed him outside, Jackson locking up behind them before heading for the car. When Stiles was in the passenger seat, he looked up at the loft, and couldn’t help the guilt when he noticed Derek was standing at the window watching him drive away. 

He should’ve just bailed on Jackson. 

* * *

Dinner with Jackson was fun. Stiles had known it would be, because they were obviously friends for a reason. Still, he spent a lot of time thinking about Derek, alone in the loft, looking put out when Stiles left, standing at the window watching him drive off. He hated that Derek had spent the evening without a significant other, not that it made a difference having Stiles there, but at least he wouldn’t have been _alone_. 

Stiles figured he’d make it up to him tomorrow or something. Maybe they could go out again, catch another movie. Or maybe they could start some kind of activity together. That pottery thing had been cool, they should look into art classes or something. Derek could probably do art. 

Or maybe even music classes. Stiles wasn’t exactly great at instruments, but he was sure he could find one to learn. He was really good at typing, and he’d once heard typists were actually excellent pianists, so maybe he could learn the piano while Derek worked on some guitar lessons. It’d be something for them to do together, at least. 

“My company boring you, Stilinski?” Jackson asked, snapping Stiles out of his thoughts. He looked over at the other man and saw him texting, his food half-eaten and a scowl on his face. 

“Says the guy who’s been on his phone almost all night.” 

“Group chat,” Jackson grunted in response, as if that explained everything. 

Stiles frowned. “Group chat? We have a group chat?” 

“No, _I_ have a group chat.” Jackson finished what he was typing, sent it, and then put his phone back in his pocket, picking up his fork and shoving another bite of steak into his mouth. 

“Who’s in it?” Stiles asked. 

“Nobody important,” Jackson said, and then proceeded to list virtually _everyone_ of importance. “Lydia, Cora, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Scott, Peter, Mason, Liam, Kira and Parrish.” 

“That’s basically the whole pack,” Stiles said dryly. “How come I’m not in it?” He noticed Derek wasn’t either, but didn’t say anything about it. Right now, he was more interested in knowing why _he_ wasn’t in it. 

“Oh, and Satomi,” Jackson said, as if he hadn’t heard Stiles. “She was only added last night though, she hardly counts.” 

“What the hell,” Stiles insisted, offended. “Why is literally everyone but me in this group chat?” 

“We’re trying to figure out the easiest way to sell you on the black market, eat your chicken,” Jackson said, shoving more steak into his mouth. 

Stiles glared at him, knowing he wasn’t serious, but annoyed he wasn’t being told what was going on. He figured he could get the answer from one of the girls or Scott later. Or Isaac.

Actually, probably Isaac. The guy was adorable as all get out, but he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. It was probably why Isaac had been avoiding both him _and_ Derek the past couple of days. 

Pulling his phone out, Stiles opened a message with Isaac while Jackson worked at cutting into his steak, clearly annoyed with whatever was happening in the group chat. 

**[Stiles]**  
apparently you’re in a group chat without me  
**[Stiles]**  
rude isaac, i thought we were friends  
**[Stiles]**  
what’s got jackson’s panties in such a twist? 

He put his phone away and went back to his dinner, asking Jackson about his school plans since he’d registered for some night classes that were starting at the end of March. They talked about that for about five minutes, then Jackson pulled his phone out again. 

A scowl formed on his face and he gave Stiles an unimpressed look. “Really? Going after the weakest link?” 

Stiles offered him a charming smile and shrugged. “It was worth a shot. Should’ve figured he’d tattle.” 

Jackson scoffed and typed out a response before putting his phone away. They moved on to other topics of discussion until they were done eating. When the waiter came to grab their plates, Jackson asked for the dessert menu and told Stiles he was going to the bathroom. 

Stiles pulled his phone out while he waited, being sure to stay alert to his surroundings. He knew he was safe right now, in the middle of Beacon Hills, with various people around him who would help protect him without a second thought, but it didn’t hurt to be vigilant. 

He had a response from Isaac and rolled his eyes. 

**[Isaac]**  
we’re trying to sell you on the black market

 **[Stiles]**  
i hear my value’s gone down exponentially since people found out how loud and obnoxious i am, so you won’t get much

Closing his message with Isaac, he stared at the name below it, finger hovering. He wanted to text Derek, make sure he was doing okay, ask if he wanted any dessert brought home, but it seemed a little rude to do that. 

What was he supposed to say? “Hey Derek, sorry I ditched you tonight when you seemed like you didn’t want to be alone, want me to bring you back something from the restaurant I went to with someone that wasn’t you?” 

He shoved his phone back into his pocket and slouched in his seat. 

The waiter came back before Jackson did and Stiles didn’t see anything of interest on the menu. Well, no, he did, but nothing that warranted being out any longer than was necessary. If Jackson didn’t want dessert, then Stiles would follow suit and they could just head out. 

When Jackson got back, Stiles passed over the menu for him to peruse. The waiter returned a bit later and Stiles tried not to be disappointed when Jackson ordered some cheesecake and a latte. He just asked for a piece of pumpkin pie and resigned himself to his fate. 

He felt bad for not making the most of his outing with Jackson, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Derek. Honestly, if he was going to be out on a date on Valentine’s Day, there was really only one person he wanted to be out with. 

“So how’s Ethan doing?” Stiles asked in an attempt to distract himself. 

“He’s good,” Jackson said, leaving it at that, like he didn’t want to give too much away about how big of a crush he had on the guy. “He and Aiden have been talking to Peter about helping out with the houses. Second one’s coming along really well. The blueprints show it’s going to have two bedrooms, so Peter’s thinking of giving that one to Alex and Rose.” 

“Makes sense,” Stiles said, crossing his arms. The first one had been given to Mason, seeing as he’d been around the longest. “Parrish can get his place back, and Alex can have her own space. I think it’s really nice she’s taking care of Rose like she is.” 

“Been doing it for a long time,” Jackson admitted. “She doesn’t talk about it, but I think Alex had a daughter that was taken from her. Rose’s parents were killed by the people who kidnapped her, so she doesn’t have anyone else. They’re kind of perfect for each other.” 

“I guess,” Stiles said, because he didn’t think having to settle for a replacement was something to be happy about. Stiles still missed his dad like crazy, it just hurt a little less than it used to. It still hurt though, and he didn’t think it would ever stop hurting. “Mason moved into his place, right? How’s he liking it?” 

“Says the water pressure is shit, but he seems to like it well enough. He likes being able to spend time on his own.”

“Liam still over there every day?” Stiles asked. 

“Guy practically lives there,” Jackson said with a scoff. “But Mason likes having him around. I think he’s been really good for him, he’s helped him a lot the past year.” 

Stiles hummed, then leaned back when the waiter showed up with their desserts and Jackson’s coffee. 

When the first house had completed its final inspection and been deemed move-in ready, Stiles had been positive that Jackson was going to be the one to jump on Peter and demand he give it to him. Surprisingly, Jackson hadn’t said a word about it, and Peter had ended up giving it to Mason so that the Yukimuras could have their spare room back. 

Honestly, they seemed pretty sad to see him go, but it wasn’t like he’d gone far, and it would be good for him to have a little bit of independence. They still told him every chance they got that he was always welcome back whenever he pleased and to never knock because it was rude to knock on his own front door. 

Mason had been a little overwhelmed, but it had only reaffirmed to Stiles that the people in this pack, in this _town_ , were fucking amazing. 

Given the second house’s blueprints would’ve been chosen by Peter before construction, Stiles was pretty sure that the only reason a two-bedroom had been chosen was because Jackson had kept his mouth shut about moving out. 

He would never admit it, but Stiles knew Jackson liked living with Peter and Cora. He didn’t want to live on his own. Jackson seemed like a real pack animal when compared to the others, because he honestly seemed uncomfortable with being by himself. Stiles often thought about how much of a punishment solitary must’ve been for him back at Harris’. 

Similarly, he wondered if that was _why_ he didn’t like being alone. 

They chatted a bit more about the plans for additional lodgings, since they had at least twelve new Supernaturals in town, only half of them being from their last raid. 

Caleb and his father had arrived two days ago, though they were staying in the motel and looking for a more permanent place to live since they had the means compared to some of the others. 

It had been an awkward and somewhat uncomfortable meeting with Caleb. Stiles hadn’t wanted to go, and usually Derek and Peter didn’t like him being out and about anyway. In this case, the problem was that Caleb was adamant he wanted to see him. He’d finally agreed to a sit-down, and while it had gone well and Caleb was appreciative and thankful for Stiles saving his life, as well as his father’s, it still left a sour taste in his mouth. The only reason anyone had gotten a jump on his father was because of Stiles himself, which he’d told Caleb, but it hadn’t seemed to matter to him. 

“You saved my dad,” he’d insisted, expression earnest. “You didn’t let them kill him. And you helped me get away. You didn’t have to do that when your own family was being threatened, but you did. You’re amazing.” 

Stiles hated it. 

Everyone kept saying Stiles had just done what he had to do, but that didn’t make it okay. Stiles _knew_ it didn’t make it okay, and he hated that people were using it as a get out of jail free card for him. He was trying to take responsibility for his actions, and people kept patting him on the head and telling him it was fine, he didn’t have a choice. 

Stiles knew he had a choice. He’d just chosen Derek over other people, and it was something he was still learning to live with every day. He was nowhere near being over the things he’d done, and he knew it would take a long time to come to terms with it all, something not at all helped with the constant, “It’s okay, Stiles. You didn’t have a choice.” 

Stiles forced himself not to dwell on it while he and Jackson finished their desserts and the Werewolf had his coffee. He tried not to be impatient, but he couldn’t help constantly checking his phone for the time, wanting to head back. Jackson didn’t seem to be in any kind of rush, though when the bill came and he checked his phone again, he looked thoughtful, typed something, waited a few seconds—presumably for a response—and then typed something else before smirking smugly and putting his phone away. 

He raised one hand for the waiter, motioning for him to come back and Stiles frowned at the abrupt change, but didn’t dwell on it. Jackson paid, just like he’d promised, and then practically wrenched Stiles’ chair out from under him to get him to stand up faster. Not that he had to work that hard, given Stiles was ready to go a while ago. 

They chatted amiably while they drove back to the loft, Jackson commenting on the next place they were thinking of hitting. Apparently one of the new girls wanted to help, but Peter had veto’d it since she’d only just gotten out and he worried about her psyche.

It made sense, she just wanted to help, but she hadn’t been out for very long. Alex and Jackson had been free for months, so it made sense they were okay with it. Even Stiles was still struggling after his escape in December, but he knew he couldn’t sit on the sidelines forever. He wanted to hit a few places himself before Schrader, or else he’d be fucked when it really mattered. 

Once they got back to the loft, Stiles turned to Jackson. “Thanks for dinner. It was fun.” 

“Yeah.” Jackson unbuckled his seatbelt, turning off the engine. “I’ll walk you in. Hale will kill me if I don’t.” 

“You better hope I don’t tell him you left me alone to go to the bathroom,” Stiles insisted with a smirk, then climbed out of the car. They both headed for the door, Jackson unlocking all the locks and opening it for him. Stiles walked in, and started to turn to lock up, but Jackson followed. He only locked one of them up before motioning for Stiles to head up the stairs. 

The bottom part of the building was still pitch black, something Stiles always thought about when it was dark, but forgot about when the sun rose. He’d have to set a reminder or something, it was cruel to force his human eyes to try not to trip over unseen steps. 

When they reached the top, Stiles unlocked the loft door and slid it open, moving through it just as his phone went off. He pulled it out to check it automatically, hearing Derek’s footsteps up in the bedroom heading for the stairs. He was obviously coming down to find out how dinner was, maybe to say hi to Jackson since he hadn’t seen him earlier. 

Stiles checked the main screen of his phone to see who’d texted him, and frowned when he noticed it was Jackson. He could see the message on his home screen, which only confused him even more. 

**[Jackson]**  
you’ll thank me for this

Stiles turned to him. “For wha—?” 

His head jerked back slightly when Jackson grabbed his face with both hands and crushed their lips together. It wasn’t an unpleasant kiss by any means, Jackson definitely knew what he was doing—which was surprising, given his upbringing—but Stiles found himself frozen in place. Jackson’s lips moved against his, and his tongue was sliding along the seam of his lips, and Stiles had no _fucking_ idea what was going on. 

And then the loft shook at the roar of outrage that emanated from above them. 

Just as quickly as it had started, it ended. Jackson released him, turned on his heel, and bolted as fast as he could down the stairs. Derek had leapt down from the bedroom onto the first floor, and almost bowled Stiles over in his attempt to get through the door, chasing Jackson down the stairs. 

Stiles heard the front door slam open, and then a car peeling out of the front lot, Derek’s angry roar echoing through the trees. 

What the fuck? 

_What_ the _fuck_?! 

Reaching up with one hand, Stiles wiped his mouth, kind of dazed. The kiss hadn’t been unpleasant, though he’d admit it was somewhat unwelcome. He liked Jackson, and he found him attractive, but he didn’t want anyone kissing him other than Derek. 

Apparently Derek seemed to feel the same way if his reaction was anything to go—

Stiles froze, brain screeching to a halt. 

Jackson had kissed him. 

Jackson had kissed him after texting him that he would thank him for it. 

And as soon as he’d kissed him, Derek had roared loud enough for Stiles’ ears to ring. Loud enough to shake the whole fucking loft. And then Jackson had run like his life depended on it. Like he knew he’d done something that might get his throat ripped out. Like he’d done something that was as much a gamble as it was a dare for Derek to react. 

Derek had reacted. 

He’d reacted by roaring in outrage. 

He’d reacted by jumping the stairs. 

He’d reacted by chasing Jackson out of the building.

He’d reacted by roaring threateningly after him, even though Jackson had peeled out like his life depended on it. 

Like he knew his life depended on how quickly he got away. 

Because he’d kissed Stiles. 

Because he’d kissed Stiles in front of Derek. 

Stiles’ brain went from being at a complete halt to going a mile a minute in half a second. Why had Derek reacted like that? If he was worried about Stiles, about it being without his consent, he would’ve been pissed, but he wouldn’t have reacted as violently as he had. He’d have shoved Jackson away, pointed an angry finger, made sure Stiles was okay. 

He hadn’t done that. 

He’d literally chased Jackson out of the building, sounding murderous, and betrayed, and _furious_. 

Why would someone do that? 

Why would someone react like that at seeing someone else kissing their best friend? 

Stiles’ heart was slowly beginning to speed up in his chest. Because he wasn’t an idiot. He could read between the lines. It was just a lot to hope for. He hadn’t exactly had the best life up to now, and to think that the _one thing_ he wanted maybe possibly wanted him back was a lot to ask for. 

He heard the door downstairs slam shut so hard the boom echoed all the way up the stairs. Derek snapped all the locks back into place and Stiles could still hear him snarling angrily, breathing hard and clearly trying to control himself but failing. 

He listened to Derek’s pounding footsteps coming up the stairs, Derek making his way back to the loft completely out of his mind with anger. 

He watched Derek round the bend and take one step into the loft before freezing, staring at Stiles in both shock and horror, as if realizing what he’d just done in front of him. And realizing Stiles was standing frozen right where he’d left him.

Like he’d just admitted everything, laid it all bare, told Stiles exactly what he thought of him. 

It was too much to hope for. It was something Stiles wanted but was never allowed to have. This was _Derek_! The one person who’d been there for him from the beginning. The person Stiles had slowly been falling for without even realizing it. 

Derek looked tense, like he was readying himself for a bad reaction. It actually looked like he was praying Stiles was an idiot, like he hadn’t figured it out, like he didn’t know—

“I’m in love with you.” 

It wasn’t _exactly_ what Stiles had been intending to say.

Actually, it was the complete _opposite_ of what he wanted to say. He’d wanted to say, “Are you in love with me?” but the words had gotten jumbled up on their way to his mouth. Not that it made them any less true, but if he was wrong, he’d just fucked things up royally. 

Well, go big or go home. 

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time, I just didn’t really realize that was what I was feeling. It’s why I wanted to leave, because I keep taking from you, and this isn’t something I can take, and I’m sorry, but I can’t help it, because it’s you, and fuck, I just love you so much Derek, I can’t—”

Stiles knew Werewolves moved fast. Of course he did, he’d spent the past year and a half exclusively with Werewolves. He knew they moved so, so fast. 

He’d never seen one move as fast as Derek did when he closed the distance between them. 

The kiss was similar to Jackson’s, and yet not at all the same. 

Derek’s hands had come up to cup his face, the same way Jackson’s had, but his kiss was harder, more urgent, almost desperate. He was kissing Stiles like this was the last thing he was ever going to do, like a man desperate for just one more breath, one more second, one more fucking kiss. 

He was kissing him like nothing else in the world mattered, like he’d waited his entire life for this moment, and he couldn’t even handle it now that it had arrived. 

His tongue was in Stiles’ mouth, his claws were pricking at the skin of Stiles’ cheeks, his stubble was rubbing against his skin. 

It was quite possibly the best kiss Stiles had ever experienced in his entire fucking life. 

When Derek pulled back for half a second, like he couldn’t believe he’d just _done_ that without asking Stiles first, that was too much for him. Stiles snapped, because he was _not_ going to let Derek regret what he’d just done. Over his dead fucking body! 

He shoved Derek back hard, the Werewolf slamming into the wall outside the loft beside the stairs, and pressed against him, grabbing the front of Derek’s shirt and kissing him. He felt like he was trying to suck the oxygen right out of Derek’s lungs, but he couldn’t help it. He knew he probably wasn’t the best kisser, and could probably spend hours thinking back on this moment recounting all the things he’d done wrong, but he couldn’t focus on that right now. 

Everything started and ended with Derek’s mouth. His hands on Stiles’ skin, the muscles beneath Stiles’ hands, the way his lips moved against his. Fuck, Stiles wanted to get closer, even though he knew that was physically impossible given he couldn’t get closer unless he physically crawled into him. 

Stiles pulled back just enough to breathe, but Derek followed, slotting their lips together again, and fuck. _Fuck_ , Stiles didn’t want this to stop. He wanted to just stay there forever, learning every single inch of Derek’s mouth with his tongue. He raked his nails down along Derek’s front, desperate to feel skin, but knowing that was a line he couldn’t cross after everything Derek had been through. 

When Derek pushed at him, Stiles almost stumbled back, but one strong arm wrapped around his waist to steady him and Stiles realized he was being asked to walk backwards. He obeyed, grabbing at Derek’s face now, his stubble rough beneath his hands. Stiles could see bright light through his eyelids, but figured they’d made it back into the loft where it wasn’t as dark, so he didn’t worry about it. 

The loft door slid shut with a loud bang and Stiles let one hand leave Derek’s face so he could fumble to lock it. He didn’t want to have to worry about safety right now, not while he was sucking on Derek’s tongue like he was, but he also didn’t want to be making out with him and get attacked so he had to pick his battles.

Once the lock snapped into place, Derek let out a snarl against Stiles’ lips and ripped his shirt open. Buttons bounced off Derek’s chest and onto the floor, and Stiles hastily lowered his arms and worked at getting the shirt off, Derek’s hands sliding along his shoulders to help him along even as their mouths fought to stay connected. 

Stiles finally got the shirt off, and reached for the hem of Derek’s. He didn’t start pulling it off until he felt Derek shift in a way that made it obvious he’d raised his arms up, a clear invitation. Stiles yanked the shirt up, breaking the kiss for much too long, in his opinion, and got it up over the Werewolf’s head. Once it was off, he threw it away violently, like it had offended him, and grabbed Derek’s face again. 

God, he couldn’t even handle it. He fucking loved him so much, he couldn’t believe this was happening. That Derek didn’t hate him for everything he’d been through, that he actually legitimately wanted him as much as Stiles wanted Derek. He couldn’t believe this was happening, it felt fucking _surreal_. 

Derek broke off the kiss again, Stiles groaning when teeth were at his neck, biting and sucking. He buried his hands in Derek’s hair, eyes sliding shut, and tugged. 

“Fuck. _Fuck_ , Derek! God, I fucking love you so much.” 

Derek’s mouth was back on his, like hearing those words was intoxicating and Derek needed him to stop saying them before he lost his God damn mind. 

Stiles figured fair was fair, because he honestly wasn’t sure this wasn’t a pre-death hallucination of some kind. There was no fucking way this was real, but the hair between his fingers felt real. The lips against his felt real. The long line of heat along his front felt _very_ real. 

Stumbling slightly when he hit the edge of the couch, Stiles broke the kiss so he could fall back onto it, stretching out on it seconds before Derek crawled over him. He braced his hands on either side of Stiles’ head, lowering himself until his weight was resting on top of him, and kissed him again.

It was slower this time. Less desperate. Like now that they’d gone through a few minutes of heavy kissing, Derek wanted to actually feel the press of Stiles’ lips against his. Savour the moment, so to speak. 

Stiles was okay with that. More than okay, in point of fact. He wrapped both arms around Derek’s neck, holding him close, and let the other man explore his mouth almost lazily. Everything about Derek was like fire under his skin, Stiles felt like he was burning everywhere he touched him. It was the best feeling in the world. 

When Derek pulled back and lowered himself to latch onto his neck again, Stiles tilted his head back, baring his throat, and Derek let out the loudest whine Stiles had ever heard. It only occurred to him after the sound escaped the Alpha that it was a sign of submission. But really, it was more than that with Stiles.

It was trust, pure and simple. Stiles trusted Derek with everything. His safety, his heart, the cuffs, his _life_. Derek was everything to him, and Stiles had no problem showing him that. 

Derek licked and sucked at Stiles’ throat, low growls emanating from the back of his throat like he couldn’t help it. Stiles wondered what Derek would be saying right now if he could talk, but he forced the thought aside viciously, not wanting to ruin the moment. 

Though he wished they’d thought to turn off the lights, because it was getting _really_ bright. When he opened his eyes to suggest it, thinking maybe he could use magic to get the switch if Derek took the cuffs off, the words died in his throat. 

Because it wasn’t the lights, it was his hands. 

They were glowing so brightly it was actually painful to look at them, and Stiles clenched his hands into fists, struggling to pull the magic back. The cuffs were literally doing nothing to stop his magic, or this emotion was too strong and he couldn’t feel the drain. Either way, he shot one hand out for the light switch and Derek jumped when the overhead light exploded in sparks and the entire loft went dark. 

“Whoops,” Stiles said breathlessly. “My bad. Oh well, we’ll fix it tomorrow, you can see in the dark and my hands are flashlights.” 

Stiles grabbed at Derek’s face again, hands still burning brightly, and yanked him down for another kiss. 

Jackson was right. 

Stiles owed him the biggest thank you for this.

Shit, he might even buy the guy a gift basket. 

At least he knew what the group chat was about, and thank fuck his friends weren’t as blind and stupid as he and Derek were, because Stiles would’ve hated to think they could’ve been making out for years without knowing it. 

That would be a fucking _tragedy_. 

* * *

Stiles was hot when he woke up. Hot, and kind of suffocating. It took him a few seconds to get his eyes opened, and once he did, he frowned at the ceiling, because it looked familiar, and yet not. He heard a loud snore from his chest area and glanced down to find Derek sleeping with his face against Stiles’ sternum, a small patch of drool on his skin. 

It took exactly point one of a second for the previous night to come back and Stiles grinned so wide his face hurt. 

He and Derek made out.

He and Derek literally fell into a tangle on the couch and _made out_.

For fucking _hours_! 

Stiles’ lips hurt! It was fucking _amazing_! 

Honestly, it wasn’t even the making out that was the best part. Sure, it was pretty fucking great, Stiles was never going to say no to Derek Hale wanting to press his lips against his. But what he liked the best was that after all that, when they’d finally calmed down, and the desperation to be closer had abated, everything was just... normal. 

Derek had kissed him lightly a few times, pressing his lips to Stiles’, then to his forehead, then to his temple, and he’d buried his face in Stiles’ shoulder and held him tightly, half-crushing him while they lay on the couch, which was much too small for _both_ of them. 

And Stiles had held him, letting one hand run smoothly up and down Derek’s spine, the two of them lying there in the dark in comfortable silence. Stiles had been smiling, and while he couldn’t see Derek’s face, he could feel his lips also curved upwards against his skin. 

He didn’t know who’d fallen asleep first, but they were both too comfortable to move, even though the couch really _was_ too small for them, and Derek’s thigh was _definitely_ too close to Stiles’ crotch. One wrong move and he was going to get hit in the groin, and that would really suck. 

Still, despite the discomfort and threats to his balls, Stiles couldn’t stop smiling. All this time, and they’d never said anything. He knew why _he_ hadn’t, because he was worried about Derek giving him something just because he felt like he had to. But he didn’t know why Derek hadn’t said anything. 

He let one hand rub absently up and down the Werewolf’s back while he thought about it, and realized it was probably for a similar reason. Stiles relied on Derek for a lot of things, and Derek probably didn’t want Stiles to feel like he _owed_ him. Like this was some kind of payment for all the help Derek had given him. 

It was kind of crazy to realize they’d both pushed the feelings down because they didn’t want the other person to feel like they didn’t have a choice in the matter. Not that Stiles knew he was right, but he felt like that was the main reason. The only other one was that Derek worried Stiles didn’t see him that way and it would ruin their friendship, but Derek knew him well enough to figure out Stiles wouldn’t have let something like that ruin what they had. 

Still, he wondered how long Derek had been feeling this way. It had to have been for a while, because the desperation from the night before was a man who’d been denied something for far too long finally being told he was allowed to have it. That made Stiles feel a little guilty, because even though he’d also loved Derek for a long, _long_ time, he hadn’t actually clued in to the fact that it _was_ love until his return from the Argents’ place. That was barely two months ago, at this point. Derek had definitely been holding onto this for a lot longer, and that made Stiles feel guilty. 

Derek let out another loud snore, Stiles letting out a small laugh at the sound. He didn’t mean to wake him up, but apparently the action of his chest rising and falling like it was from his laughter was enough to have Derek’s eyes peel open. He frowned slightly, like he was confused, and then turned his head to look up at Stiles. 

“Morning sleepyhead,” Stiles said, voice still thick with sleep. He let his hand continue to rub absently up and down Derek’s spine. “Sleep okay?” 

Derek blinked at him blearily for a second, then his eyes seemed to focus and his foggy sleep-brain clued him in to what he was looking at. His eyes dipped down once to Stiles’ neck before shooting back up to his face, and the smile that crossed his lips made Stiles’ heart melt. 

Fuck, he loved him. So fucking much. 

“I will forgive your morning breath if you forgive mine,” Stiles said, hands stilling on Derek’s back. “Are morning kisses a thing?” 

Derek answered by levering himself up and pressing his lips to Stiles’, one hand coming up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly at his skin. Fuck, it was the most perfect thing in the world to wake up to, Stiles wanted to wake up to this every day for the rest of his God damn _life_. 

When Derek pulled away, he didn’t go far, kissing Stiles’ cheek, then his temple, then his forehead, like he couldn’t get enough of kissing him. He did stop at the forehead though, letting Stiles go and grunting while forcing himself up and off him. Stiles winced as he sat up, his back unhappy with the sleeping arrangements, but he figured Derek was probably faring no better. 

Then he remembered Derek was a Werewolf and felt fucking _nothing_ because the guy stood up and stretched, then scratched at his arm while snarling a yawn and glanced at the kitchen door, like he was debating whether to make food and coffee or use the facilities. 

“I hate you,” Stiles told him miserably, rubbing at his lower back while standing up. He tried to crack his spine, but it wouldn’t give, and Derek just chuckled unsympathetically, leaning forward to wrap an arm around his waist and kiss his temple in apology. 

“You suck,” Stiles muttered in response, without any heat. “Bathroom first?” 

Derek tilted his head in thought, then motioned for Stiles to go for it first. He grunted in response and shuffled forward, shutting the door once inside. He started to turn to use the toilet when he caught sight of colours out of the corner of his eye and turned back to the mirror. 

He almost choked when he caught sight of his neck and wrenched the door back open. “Derek _fucking_ Hale!” 

The grin he got while said individual wandered towards the kitchen was unrepentant and pleased. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Stiles insisted after him, turning back to the mirror and leaning forward, poking at his neck. 

It was absolutely fucking _littered_ with hickeys. They were of varying shades and sizes, but there had to be _twenty_ of them, like Derek wanted to make it _explicitly_ clear Stiles belonged to someone and people needed to keep their hands off. 

“Fuck, I can never go out in public again,” Stiles insisted, still poking at them. They didn’t hurt, but there was no way he was going to be able to cover these up. He wondered if his healing magic worked on hickeys. After all, they were no different than a bruise really, since they were formed by bursting small superficial blood vessels beneath the skin. 

But then again, Stiles didn’t really _want_ to get rid of them. He didn’t entirely hate having Derek mark him like this, it was just a bit of a shock. He hadn’t exactly been expecting this many when he’d walked into the bathroom. Sure, he’d felt Derek give them to him, but he’d thought four, _maybe_ five. Not fucking _twenty_.

Still... it made his chest warm at the thought that Derek wanted everyone to know he was taken, so he couldn’t feel too mad about it. 

He shut the door again so he could use the toilet, then washed his hands and brushed his teeth. He raked one hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it, then figured it didn’t matter enough. He and Derek were way past that now, and he wasn’t embarrassed by his looks. 

Besides, Derek had drooled on his chest, so he had that going for him, and _man_ was Stiles never letting him live that down.

When he walked into the kitchen, he grinned and realized how truly _domestic_ this all was. Because now, he could literally walk up behind Derek, wrap his arms around his middle, kiss his shoulder, and rest his chin on it while watching him make eggs. So that was exactly what he did, holding the Werewolf tightly and basking in the glow of the amazing morning he was having. 

And the glow of his hands, since that was probably a thing he wasn’t going to get under control any time soon. 

Which reminded him... 

“Sorry about the lights. I, uh... got a little carried away.” 

Derek snorted, turning to raise his eyebrows at him in a, “You think?” sort of way. 

“Hey, you try and control your magic while you’re lying under your hot Werewolf boyfriend.” 

The smile he got in response looked like it could’ve broken Derek’s face, and said hot Werewolf _boyfriend_ shifted to kiss his temple. Stiles hummed his forgiveness, and stayed where he was until Derek was done with the eggs. 

When they were on two plates, Stiles pulled back and told Derek to use the bathroom while he got the toast ready and poured them some coffee. He was bringing the plates out when Derek emerged, and the other man went to the kitchen to bring out the coffees, sitting down beside Stiles and passing one over. 

“Thanks.” Stiles took a sip, licking his lips, then took a bite out of his toast. 

It struck him how very fucking _normal_ this was. Them making breakfast together, eating together, moving around each other in sync. They’d been living together for almost two years—his time away didn’t count, it was forced time away—so they knew each other really well. And they’d really been acting like this for months, the only difference was that they kissed now.

Hell, Stiles sometimes hugged Derek just because he wanted to. And it wasn’t like Derek usually kept his distance from Stiles. Really, they’d been together for a while, they were just too stupid to realize it. 

Or too stubborn, it was hard to say. 

They’d just finished breakfast and were washing and drying the dishes when Stiles’ phone rang. 

It took a second for Stiles to figure out where it was, because he’d been holding it when Jackson had kissed him, and then everything else had happened so he’d kind of just... dropped it. He found it easily enough, on the floor by the door, half-buried by the button-down he’d borrowed from Derek that was now missing all the buttons. 

At least he hadn’t ripped it, so it was salvageable. Stiles could get someone to sew the buttons back on. Or he could try it himself, not like he couldn’t figure out how to sew a button. YouTube was a thing. 

When he flipped the phone around, Jackson’s name was flashing on the screen. He answered it, a thank you on his lips, but then a thought occurred to him. 

The others had known about this for God knew how long. They had a fucking _group chat_ about it, and hadn’t bothered to tell either him _or_ Derek. Hadn’t even tried to help them confess to each other. Instead, they’d worked at Derek’s jealousy and Stiles’ guilt in an attempt to force an admission. Sure, it had worked, but it was fucking rude. 

So Stiles was _not_ going to give them what they wanted and he swallowed the thanks back down, instead answering with a, “Hey, you’re up early.” 

_“It’s hard to sleep when a protective asshole chases you out of a building,”_ Jackson said, though it was clear he was eager for information. 

Derek wandered out of the kitchen, drying his hands on his jeans, and cocked an eyebrow at Stiles, who was still crouched by the door with the phone at his ear. Stiles grinned at him and flapped one hand in invitation for him to join him. 

“Yeah, you really pissed him off. You know consent is a big thing for him, right? He was pretty pissed you just went for it like you did.” 

Silence on the other end. 

“Also, what happened to me not being your type? I mean, I’m flattered and all, but I thought our date last night was, you know, platonic.” 

A longer silence. 

“And aren’t you into Ethan? You’re kind of sending me mixed signals. And on top of that, I had to deal with a raging Derek all night. He was so pissed, Jackson. I literally had to talk him down from going out after you like, eight times. I was pretty sure I’d wake up to a phonecall from Peter telling me you’d died under mysterious circumstances. I guess you’re just lucky he’s too paranoid to leave me alone.” 

Derek had stopped beside him and was chuckling quietly to himself, shaking his head. Stiles just grinned at him.

He knew the gig was up the second anyone came by and saw Stiles’ neck, but for now, over the phone, he could afford to lie through his teeth. 

_“I...”_ Jackson seemed at a loss for words. _“What happened after I left?”_

“Derek stormed back upstairs, made sure I was okay, plotted your death like, thirty times—some of them were pretty creative, I have to admit—and then I finally convinced him to calm down and go to bed.”

 _“Where is he now?”_ Jackson asked uncertainly. 

“In the shower. Probably plotting another few hundred ways to kill you. I’d recommend you avoid him for a while, or at least text him an apology or something. I mean, I didn’t mind, but again, consent’s a big thing for him, and you kind of just... _went_ for it, you know?” 

Another silence. 

“Jackson?”

 _“I’ll call you back.”_ He hung up. 

Stiles grinned so wide his face hurt, standing up and turning to face Derek, feeling pretty good about himself. 

“Did you know they have a group chat about us?” Stiles demanded, waving his phone for emphasis. “A _group chat_! Everyone was in it! It’s fucking rude, they could’ve saved us the trouble and just told us to fess up.” 

Derek chuckled again, wrapping his arms around Stiles and hugging him tightly. It was like now that he knew he was allowed to do it, he was going to do it as much as possible. 

Not that Stiles minded one little fucking bit. Derek was the best hugger, and he was so warm and comfortable and Stiles loved him so much. 

This was seriously the best day of his life. 

No, yesterday was. 

The last however many hours from the moment Derek kissed him to the moment right now was the best period of his entire fucking life. 

They stood there hugging for a while, Stiles’ phone silent in his hand, but eventually pulled apart so they could go about their morning routine. They’d eaten and used the facilities, but neither of them had showered in two days and they were both still shirtless. 

Stiles let Derek go first, tinkering on the computer while he waited. After he was done, Stiles took his turn. It was still a bit of a shock to see his reflection in the mirror, but he couldn’t help smiling at the sight of all the hickeys. When he pulled his shirt on, it did literally nothing to hide the multitude of them, and he figured that was the point. Derek had given them to him higher up on his throat so that nothing short of a turtleneck would hide them. 

Not that Stiles owned a turtleneck. _Or_ was interested in hiding them. 

When he headed back into the living room, Derek was on the couch strumming his guitar. Stiles wandered over and fell down heavily beside him, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder and watching his fingers move along the strings. 

They stayed like that for a long moment in comfortable silence, but Stiles knew they had to fix all the lights, and he wanted to talk about this. 

Well, kind of talk about it. Clearly there was nothing to talk about from a relationship standpoint. They were already living together, they already knew each other’s boundaries, they trusted each other. Really, this was the next logical step. 

But Stiles wanted to know. 

“How long?” he asked, voice quiet in an attempt not to spoil the calm atmosphere. 

Derek’s fingers paused for a moment, then he shifted his hands and played the first few bars of Smoke on the Water. It took Stiles a few seconds to clue in, because he’d heard him play it so many times, and it took a bit to remember when he’d _first_ played it. 

“New Mexico,” he said softly. “While we were with Satomi.” 

Derek tapped his guitar once, and then resumed playing the same song as the day before. 

Stiles thought about it, tried to think back to when things had changed. When Derek had tried not to look at him as often, when he’d perhaps touched him a little less, pulled back ever so slightly. It was never obvious, not really, but Stiles remembered one distinct reaction he’d never seen from Derek before. 

“It was when I came in after my fight with Heather,” he said, Derek’s fingers not pausing this time. “When it was raining, and I came in soaking wet, and started stripping in the living room.” 

Derek tapped his fingers once, barely pausing in his playing. Stiles let out a small laugh, closing his eyes, enjoying the soft sound of the melody playing. 

“I think I loved you before that. I think it was when I was training with Ennis. When he was always threatening to hit me but you kept growling to remind him you were there. I think that’s when it _first_ started, but I didn’t actually clue in to it until I got back from the Argents’. When we were here with Satomi that first time, talking about what I’d done. That’s when I clued in, but I think I loved you long before then, I just didn’t realize that’s what it was.” He let out a small laugh. “Kind of weird, right? Not even knowing I’m in love with you _while_ being in love with you.” 

Derek just made a noise at the back of his throat, and Stiles knew he was insisting it wasn’t weird. Stiles’ life was a little all over the place, so it made sense he wasn’t sure what he was feeling. 

Their calm moment was interrupted by Derek’s phone going off. The Werewolf paused in his playing and pulled it out of his pocket. Stiles opened his eyes so he could see it just as another message came through. He couldn’t help the grin on his face when he saw it was from Jackson, even as a third arrived. 

**[Jackson]**  
this is a huge misunderstanding  
**[Jackson]**  
look man we’re tryig to help you  
**[Jackson]**  
i KNOW you love him  
**[Jackson]**  
just DO something about it!  
**[Jackson]**  
i was just trying to make you react  
**[Jackson]**  
i don’t like him that way i swear  
**[Jackson]**  
but you need to do someting  
**[Jackson]**  
please for my sanity  
**[Jackson]**  
just fucking bone each other  
**[Jackson]**  
please! 

Derek opened the emojis and sent Jackson the gun emoji followed by a smiley face. For someone who couldn’t speak, that was about as loud and clear as he could get. 

**[Jackson]**  
i’m fucking moving

Stiles laughed, shifting so his back was pressed up along Derek’s side, and letting his head fall back onto his shoulder. Derek was smiling when he put his phone away, and Stiles had to wonder how badly Jackson was sweating right now. 

“How long do you think we can keep this up?” Stiles asked him.

Derek shrugged, but Stiles knew it wouldn’t be as long as they both wanted. Now that Stiles was _allowed_ to kiss and hug him, he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop. 

And if Derek decided he really, _really_ wanted to make it clear who Stiles belonged to, well, it was going to be really easy for people to figure things out. 

Unless Stiles bought himself a turtleneck. 

He didn’t want to buy a turtleneck.

So probably not very long. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many words does it take for two idiots to figure their shit out? Apparently: 298,545.
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> Treasure Island (c) Robert Louis Stevenson


	19. No

They kept it up for exactly twenty-two hours. That was how long it took before someone dropped by to try and make peace so that Derek wouldn’t murder Jackson. They really chose the right person for the job too, because when Stiles heard knocking at the door, he tilted his head slightly to listen while Derek wandered through the bottom part of their building and unlocked it to pull it open. 

“Hey Derek,” Kira said, sounding as cheerful as ever. “Can I come in?” 

Stiles tried not to snicker to himself in his nest of blankets inside the sideways train car. It had taken a long time to get his space back to some semblance of normal, but despite the extensive damage to his favourite spot, he and Derek had cleaned it up pretty well. He was back to sitting in it with blankets and books as a means to actually focus on what he was doing. 

Something made very difficult now that he knew he could just jump Derek whenever he wanted. It was best they keep some space when they were both trying to be productive because, as they’d discovered a few hours ago, if Stiles was sitting on the couch reading and Derek was playing the guitar or doing something or another, it was very, _very_ easy to get distracted. 

“How’s it going?” Kira asked Derek, who presumably shrugged, since that tended to be his default answer to that question. “Stiles around?” 

He knew Derek wouldn’t lie about that, and had probably motioned the train car, so Stiles raised his voice and called out a greeting to her. She called one back, her voice overly cheerful, and Stiles felt a _little_ guilty for how amusing this entire situation was. Served them right for talking about them behind their backs! 

He could hear Kira speaking to Derek in low tones, her voice too quiet to be picked up by Stiles’ puny human ears, but he could hear Derek’s occasional growls and snarls suggesting he was playing up this whole thing and he almost broke a rib trying to hold back his laughter. Fuck, it was a good thing Derek was the one out there because he had a much better poker face.

They should probably capitalize on that one day, go to Vegas, play some poker, make some money. 

Stiles went back to reading his book after a time, because the conversation was less entertaining when he couldn’t actually hear it. Kira seemed to be arguing with Derek for a while before her voice rose and he could tell she was exasperated. 

“You’re being unreasonable. I’m going to talk to your better half.” 

Oh no, she was coming! 

Stiles didn’t know what to do, because he couldn’t very well hide under the blankets, that would be too obvious. Instead, he just raised the book up unnaturally high so that it covered as much of his neck as possible, and a majority of his face, and pretended to read while Kira clambered into the train car. She cursed when she tripped, the entrance a little uneven after Derek’s redecorating attempts, and moved forward a few steps. 

“Hey you, how’s it going?” 

“It’s going,” he responded, keeping the book exactly where it was. “How are you? How was your Valentine’s Day?” 

“Fine, I didn’t do much. Not really interested in dating, to be honest, so I just had a chill evening at home with a bunch of movies.” He heard her lean back against something that almost gave beneath her weight and she let out a startled sound. “This train car is a hazard.” 

“Eh, it’s durable,” Stiles insisted. “The real hazard is our lack of lights in the loft. I accidentally exploded them and apparently Derek can’t figure out how to fix it so we need an electrician to come in. Thank God the fridge didn’t go, or Derek would’ve been pissed, that thing is full.” 

He heard a growl from outside and rolled his eyes. “I told you I was sorry,” he insisted loudly. “I didn’t mean to explode all the lights. You know whose fault that was.” He grinned behind his book, hearing Derek let out a huff. He sounded like he was right outside the train car on the other side of where Stiles was. He kind of wished he was _inside_ the train car, but that would be dangerous. 

“I heard you, uh, went on a date?” Kira said hesitantly. 

“It was platonic,” Stiles replied, still keeping the book raised, though his arms were starting to tire. Books were _heavy_ , especially old tomes made of like, concrete or something. “Or, I thought it was, until Jackson kissed me.” 

“Yeah. About that...” Kira trailed off and sighed. “Look, can we talk about what happened?” 

“There isn’t really anything to talk about.” 

“Jackson’s tried to explain himself, but it doesn’t sound like it’s going over too well. I just wanted to clear the air a little bit.” 

“I’m not the one he pissed off. You know how Derek is about consent.” 

Kira let out a frustrated sigh, like she’d already tried to argue this point with Derek and failed. He heard her shift, but didn’t realize what she was doing until her hand grabbed the top of the book and wrenched it down. 

“Look, I’m—” she cut herself off, eyes landing on his neck, then the impish smile on his face. Her mouth opened, shut, then opened again when she straightened and crossed her arms. “You’re both _huge_ assholes, you know that? Jackson is literally packing his bags right now. He says he heard Vancouver’s a nice place to visit this time of year.” 

“Canada in February?” Stiles made a face. “Doubtful. Isn’t it perpetually winter in that country?” 

“How could you do this to him?” Kira demanded, but Stiles could tell a part of her was vibrating with the need to scream at the top of her lungs. She was probably itching to pull her phone out and text the group chat about how Derek and Stiles were fucking with them.

And fucking each other, apparently. 

Not that they’d fucked, Stiles was pretty sure he and Derek both had a long way to go before they did anything _that_ intimate, but that wasn’t the point. 

“To be fair,” Stiles insisted while grinning, eyes shifting to Derek when he climbed into the train car, “Jackson _did_ kiss me without consent.” 

He ignored the fact that Derek had _technically_ done the same thing, but in his defence, he couldn’t talk, and Stiles had been spewing some pretty embarrassing things. 

He also ignored that he had _also_ technically done the same thing, but really, Derek had kissed him first, so it wasn’t like Stiles wasn’t completely sure of his welcome. And he was also a puny human that Derek could throw off him if needed. Not that he would ever, but that wasn’t the point. He _could_. 

Derek looked smug while easing past Kira to join Stiles in his pile of blankets, falling down beside him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders before kissing his temple. Stiles really liked that Derek always kissed his temple, it felt intimate while also being endearingly adorable. 

“You’re both the worst,” Kira informed them, but she was smiling, now. “Seriously, the _worst_.” Shaking her head, she ran one hand through her long hair, letting out a small sigh before eying them both critically. “So, Valentine’s then?” 

“Derek’s reaction was a bit of a hint,” Stiles teased, Derek rolling his eyes. “I told him how I felt when he got back upstairs. Then he decided to be a Vampire for the rest of the night.” 

“Yeah, I see that. I mean, Jesus Derek, did you _need_ a blood sample?” 

Derek looked just as unrepentant today as he had yesterday. Actually, he looked a little proud, the dick. Stiles literally couldn’t go out in public anymore. 

“Well, thank God, I guess.” Kira fell back against one of the sideways seats, this one managing to hold her weight. “We were getting tired of watching you two make moon eyes at each other.” 

Stiles spluttered attractively. “We were—wha—we were _not_ making moon eyes!” 

Kira arched an eyebrow at him, looking amused. “Please. He stared at you like you were his whole world whenever you weren’t looking. And you stared at him like your life would be over if he ever left your side whenever _he_ wasn’t looking. The only ones who couldn’t tell how gone for each other you were were your two dumb asses.” She motioned them vaguely with a sweep of her hand. “Cora was ready to lock you both in a cell until you admitted your feelings, but Peter reminded her you both lived together and rarely ever left the loft, so you were basically already locked in a cell together.” 

Stiles hummed, because they weren’t wrong. He also wasn’t opposed to being locked away with Derek, but he probably shouldn’t mention that aloud. 

“Why didn’t you guys just... I don’t know, _say_ something?” Stiles asked. 

Kira shrugged one shoulder, the action making her shift slightly and almost fall over. She cursed the train car again and ended up standing fully instead, not seeming to trust the thing not to kill her. 

“Derek wouldn’t act on anything if we told him you liked him, because he’d be too worried of making you feel like you owed him.” Derek made a noise beside him and Kira gave him a look. “I _know_ you, Derek. You wouldn’t believe he liked you of his own volition, you’d insist he only liked you because he was stuck with you.” 

“And me?” Stiles asked. Surely they could’ve told him and he’d have figured things out from there.

Maybe.

Possibly? 

“You wouldn’t have believed us.” Kira’s expression softened. “You seem to spend all your time thinking about all the things you don’t deserve, especially since—you got back.” He didn’t miss the hesitation, but was thankful she redirected her statement instead of letting it hang awkwardly. “Any time anything goes your way, you list off all the reasons you don’t deserve it. If we told you Derek liked you, you’d either think we were lying, or you wouldn’t act on it because you wouldn’t feel like you deserved it.” 

She wasn’t _entirely_ wrong, though she wasn’t completely right, either. Stiles still had brief stabs of panic that he’d forced Derek into this, that Derek had clued in that this was something Stiles wanted and was doing this to keep him happy. He always managed to push those thoughts away though, because Derek’s reaction to Jackson kissing him wasn’t something that could be faked. 

“I’m glad,” Kira said, snapping Stiles out of his depressive thoughts. She had a small smile on her face, and looked like she sincerely meant it. “You’re good for each other. I’m really glad you found each other, and that this worked out for everyone involved.” 

“Not so much for Jackson, Derek is _still_ pissed about that kiss,” Stiles informed her. 

Kira looked at Derek when she replied. “He did that to force you to get up off your ass and _do_ something about your crush. Besides, if you want to murder someone, it was Erica’s idea, Jackson just executed it.” 

The low growl in the back of Derek’s throat suggested his pack was about to get smaller in size. Stiles just grinned and kissed at whatever part of Derek’s jaw he could reach in his current position. The growling stopped, but Derek was still very obviously unhappy. 

Sighing and glancing towards the hatch she’d come in through, Kira made at face at the realization she’d have to go back _out_ that way, then turned back to the pair of them. “I suppose I should go tell Jackson he isn’t going to get murdered. It would be a real shame if he moved to Canada, less opportunities to visit.” 

Derek made a noise at the back of his throat that Stiles interpreted as, “Good.” 

“Don’t be like that,” Stiles insisted, elbowing him lightly. Derek just gave him an unimpressed look and Stiles kissed him again. 

“That is adorable, but I imagine we’re going to get really tired of it soon,” Kira said with a small laugh. “Maybe this was a mistake.” 

“No take-backsies,” Stiles insisted, Derek shifting to stand up so he could go lock the door behind Kira. 

She just grinned at Stiles, offered him a thumbs-up, and then exited the train car. Derek followed and Stiles listened while the two of them headed to the door. It opened for Kira to exit, and then shut again moments later, all the locks re-engaging. 

He could hear Derek shuffling slightly, and then silence. Stiles jumped when the Werewolf clambered back through the hatch, not having heard him approach. 

“You know we’re gonna get distracted again if you’re in here,” Stiles argued, but he obediently raised his arms when Derek approached and lay on his back on the mess of blankets, his head in Stiles’ lap. 

When he closed his eyes to take a nap, Stiles figured maybe he could resist kissing him all over again. He knew for now, they were just making up for lost time, but he also felt like he was addicted to Derek. He never wanted to stop touching him, or smelling him, or kissing him. It was kind of bad, actually. 

As soon as Derek settled, Stiles rested one hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart and the slow rise and fall as he breathed. He put the book down on the ground beside him, continuing to read, using his free hand to flip pages. 

He didn’t think Derek intended to fall asleep, but within a few minutes, he was breathing deeply and Stiles could tell he’d passed out. 

It had never occurred to him before this moment, how much Derek trusted him. They’d been sleeping in the same bed since pretty much the first day they’d met, and Derek had never once acted like he thought Stiles was going to hurt him. For someone who’d been abused, Stiles felt like that really showed just how much he trusted him, even before they’d really known one another. 

He looked down into Derek’s slumbering face, his expression calm in sleep, and felt another pang of guilt over what had happened to him. How much he’d lost. 

“I’m getting your voice back,” he promised softly, his free hand hovering over Derek’s hair but not touching him. He didn’t want to wake him up. “I don’t care how long it takes, I’m getting it back.” 

He was getting it back. 

Even if he had to drag Kate kicking and screaming to the loft to break the curse, he was getting it back. 

* * *

Stiles had started getting accustomed to the calm and quiet days in with Derek. They weren’t any different than they used to be, but somehow weren’t exactly the same, either. He figured it was because they were always in each other’s orbit now. 

It wasn’t that they didn’t used to be before, they always hung out together and stuck close to each other, but it was different now. Where in the past Derek would’ve just taken a seat at the end of the couch while Stiles read or watched TV, now the Werewolf tended to lie down with his head in Stiles’ lap. 

Before, when they made breakfast together, Stiles would hover by the wall or the door and watch Derek cook, but now he just attached himself to the man’s back and rested his chin on his shoulder to watch. 

Nothing had changed, but everything was different. It was strange, but not unpleasant. 

Though Stiles teased Derek about how much he napped nowadays. The guy was always using Stiles’ lap as a pillow and dozing off, like he was just comfortable, or happy, or content, or all of the above. It was hard to read the different levels of joy nowadays, not that Stiles was complaining. 

And he felt like, the more okay Derek was as time passed, the more okay _he_ was. He still had moments where what he’d done hit him like a brick, and he still didn’t feel comfortable joining Alex and Jackson whenever they raided Collectors from the inside-out, but he was doing better. 

He wanted to be useful again, and start helping with the raids in a more hands-on way, but he knew he wasn’t ready for that yet, even though their next one was in a few weeks. It was taking a bit more time to plan because it was two States over, which meant travelling and made it harder to stake the place out. Peter always bitched and moaned about all the money he was losing on these fruitless endeavours, but Stiles knew he didn’t honestly feel that way. 

Besides, Peter didn’t seem to ever actually be _hurting_ for money, so Stiles figured he had a good reserve but didn’t want people to know it. Which was fair, because if he was secretly a billionaire, people would expect more from him, and Peter was already doing _more_ than enough. He was basically single-handedly financing the construction of the new houses in the Preserve, and was getting nothing in return for it. 

The people moving in owed him a lot, and they definitely knew it, but it didn’t make it any easier for him financially. Stiles was glad he was such a good person, even if he pretended to be an asshole more often than not. He was kind of like Jackson, except less openly hostile. Probably because he’d learned how to hide his biting comments behind a kind smile in his old age.

Not that he was old... Peter would kill Stiles if he found out he considered him ‘old.’ 

Stiles was in the middle of watching the newest season of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ on Netflix while sliding his fingers through Derek’s hair—he wasn’t interested in the show, because apparently his taste in TV _sucked_ —when the Werewolf’s eyes slowly opened. Stiles glanced down at him when Derek shifted, removing his hand so he could sit up.

“What is it?” he asked, but didn’t need to wait on a response, because he felt familiar signatures pass through his barrier moments before the distinct sound of a vehicle approaching hit. 

Derek was already striding to the window by the time Stiles had found the remote and paused the show, climbing to his feet as well and following after him. He moved up beside him, looking down, and recognized the car parked in front of the building, re-affirming he hadn’t been wrong in who he thought had passed through his spell. 

“Oh,” he said, a little startled. It’d been a while since she’d visited. 

Derek sighed loudly, like he was expecting this to be a huge inconvenience, but he obediently moved to the loft door, sliding it open and starting down the stairs. Turned out not to be necessary, because by the time Stiles moved to the landing, Lydia was already halfway up the stairs. Cora’s presence behind her explained how she’d gotten in, given all the Hales had keys to the building. 

“Hey Lydia,” Stiles said with a grin. “It’s been a while.” 

“You don’t visit,” she said dryly, carrying a box in her arms. Cora had another two in hers, and Stiles wondered if they were bringing gifts. It wasn’t his birthday for another month, so he doubted it. 

“Hard to feel motivated to leave the house,” Stiles admitted with an impish smile. Cora made a face at that, clearly having mental images of her brother she’d rather _not_ have in her brain. Derek just grinned at Stiles, who winked back. 

“Careful Derek, you might break your face with all the smiling you’ve been doing,” Lydia said while passing the two boys and entering the loft. 

“Don’t discourage the smiling, I love the smiling,” Stiles insisted, following her in, letting the siblings take up the rear. He heard the loft door slide shut, and then Cora joined him and Lydia at the table, setting the boxes down. 

Lydia was looking around, letting out a small hum. “I can’t tell if Stiles has been good for you, or if you finally grew up,” she said, giving Derek a look. “Every time I come over and the place isn’t trashed, I’m surprised.” 

“Hey,” Stiles insisted, a little offended. What, just because they were two guys, they couldn’t keep the loft clean? 

“She’s just stating facts,” Cora insisted. “We grew up with Derek. You should’ve seen the state of his room. Pretty sure he had _things_ living in there until Peter forced him to clean it out. Took him almost four days to get it clean enough that we could see the carpet again.” 

“Really?” Stiles turned to Derek, eyebrows raised. “Damn, that’s gross.” 

Derek gave him a look, silently reminding him that Stiles _still_ left his clothes on the bathroom floor sometimes after he took a shower. There was no heat in his expression though, so Stiles just grinned and sat down, slapping his hands on the table in a random rhythm. 

“So. Whatcha got for me? I didn’t order any new toys.” 

Cora let out a sound of disgust and Lydia gave her an annoyed look. “You’re making it dirtier than he is, stop taking everything out of his mouth as a sex comment. I don’t want to think about Derek naked.” 

“I do,” Stiles offered with a grin.

“Shut up,” Lydia said immediately, like she’d known he was going to retort with that. “We need to talk.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Stiles said, watching Lydia use her keys to tear through the tape her box was being held shut with. 

“I’m guessing you’re at the maximum power setting now, correct?” 

Stiles stared at Lydia, not understanding what she was asking him. “What?” 

“The cuffs.” She nodded towards his wrists while pulling apart the flaps of the box in front of her. 

Derek stiffened when he saw what was inside and Stiles stood from his chair so he could peek into the box. His stomach dropped when he saw three different boxes, but they were familiar. They were the same nondescript boxes his own cuffs had come in, which could only mean one thing. 

“You bought cuffs.” 

“Like I said, you must be at the highest setting by now, you’ve been wearing those for over a month, haven’t you?” Lydia motioned his wrists off-handedly and Stiles looked down at the leather bands around his wrists. 

He winced and reached out to rub at one of them. They didn’t hurt anymore, not really. They weren’t particularly _pleasant_ , and he was still cold all over all the time because of them, but they didn’t really hurt and hadn’t impacted his magic in a while. 

He also felt less exhausted while wearing them, like he had so much in his reserve that the cuffs could barely even manage to suck a third of it, struggling to keep up with the sheer amount of magic he had in his body. 

At first he’d wondered if it was because he hadn’t taken them off in a while, since the ones with Gerard needed to be removed every now and then presumably to drain the magic out of them. Stiles hadn’t read anything about that in the manual, so he’d just assumed this was a newer, better model that dispelled the magic it absorbed on its own somehow. 

“How did you know?” The whole point of the cuffs being ‘fashionable’ was for no one to recognize he was wearing them. To find out Lydia knew was a bit concerning. How many people knew? 

“Please,” she insisted, sounding a little offended. “Did you honestly think we wouldn’t notice?” 

Cora raised her hand from where she was seated, two more boxes in front of her. “I didn’t notice.” 

It looked like Lydia was trying not to snap at her. “Well, I did. So did Peter. You think I bought all of these on my own?” She motioned the three large delivery boxes. Stiles figured if all three had three _more_ boxes in them with cuffs, he was looking at nine sets of cuffs. Plus the ones he was wearing, that made it ten pairs in total. 

“Who else?” he asked quietly. 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, nobody else knows,” Cora insisted. “Peter basically clued in day one, but figured you had a reason for it. Lydia was the one who figured out what that reason was.” She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms and eying Stiles. “You’re trying to make sure they won’t affect you anymore, aren’t you? You want to make sure having those put on you again won’t stop you from escaping.” 

Stiles looked down at his wrists, still rubbing absently at one of the bands. He forced himself to stop, resting them flat on the table. “I want to know if they’re ever put on me again that I can still use magic to get home.”

“Which is admirable, really, but I think it would be prudent to take it a step further.” Lydia tapped one of the boxes in front of her. “These ones are the newest model. They have GPS, and some of them also have shock features. As news of you travels, the kinds of cuffs available are becoming more sophisticated. It won’t do you any good being able to use magic if you’re being electrocuted.” 

The look on Derek’s face at those words was extremely dark and terrifying. Stiles just winced again, because he hadn’t really thought about that. The model he’d ordered was similar to the one Gerard had, just slightly newer. He knew it didn’t have shock features, because they’d have used that the second they realized he was gone, and he hadn’t felt anything. He also knew that it didn’t have GPS because they hadn’t found him immediately, they’d just located the closest place for him to run to and found the one store that was unlocked. 

But what Lydia said made sense. He was evolving, so the shackles to contain him also had to evolve. He hated admitting it, but maybe being able to use magic wasn’t necessarily the end of this entire experiment. 

“I take it you have an idea,” Stiles said, eying the multitude of cuffs she had. 

“Of course.” Lydia flipped some curls over her shoulder and pulled one of the boxes of cuffs out. “You’re going to practice getting them off.” 

“Uh, don’t know how much you know about the cuffs, but they’re specifically designed to require two hands to take off. I ripped off at least three nails and injured myself pretty badly the last time I had to pull even just one of them off, and I only succeeded because I was in a hardware store.” 

“With your _magic_ , genius,” Lydia said, her tone condescending. “You’re a Spark, aren’t you? So use what you have at your disposal and blast the cuffs off.” 

Stiles blinked at her, then looked down at the cuffs around his wrists. 

Blast the cuffs off using magic? Could he do that? Was that even _possible_? He knew he could burn restrictors off, but that was different. That was just magic versus magic. This would be magic versus something specifically _designed_ to contain his magic. 

Stiles jerked in his seat when Derek flicked him hard in the forehead. He scowled and reached up to rub at the injury. Werewolves often forgot they were stronger than other people, Stiles was literally going to get a fucking concussion one day, and that’d be embarrassing. The doctor would ask how he got injured and he’d have to say his boyfriend flicked him in the head. 

“My thoughts exactly,” Lydia said, giving Stiles an unimpressed look. 

“What?” he asked, still rubbing at the injury. 

“Derek is basically saying you need to stop doubting yourself. You’re the _Spark_ , Stiles. The last of your kind. The most powerful magical entity on the _planet_. You need to stop doubting your abilities and start working on honing them. Look at everything you’ve achieved since you got here. When you first met Derek, you didn’t even _know_ you were magical. Now look at you.” She motioned him. “Wearing magic-sucking cuffs of your own volition, and able to continue to use magic while they’re at their highest setting. If you can do that, why do you think breaking them would be any different? It’s still just magic.” 

“It’s different,” he insisted. 

“How so?” Lydia arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him. “Magic is magic.” 

“But this is—stop it!” Stiles snapped when Derek flicked him in the temple this time. He batted childishly at the Werewolf’s hand to get him to stop injuring him, but Derek looked completely unrepentant. 

“You won’t succeed without first trying,” Lydia insisted. “And if you fail, so what? Get back up, dust yourself off, and try again. If everyone gave up whenever they failed the first time, we wouldn’t have half of the technology that we do today. So stop moping and let’s set up a schedule.” 

Stiles was really only moping because his head hurt, but he wasn’t going to tell Lydia that. She wanted to set up a schedule, then she was going to whether he agreed or not. And Derek would force him to follow it anyway. 

The goal was for him to be able to easily break the cuffs using magic before the end of April, which gave him a little bit over a month and a half to practice. It was why she and Peter had bought nine sets, because they anticipated the first few would only crack slightly, but they needed the cuffs to literally blow off his wrists to be successful. 

“When you’ve cycled through these ones, if you still haven’t succeeded, let me know and we’ll buy more,” Cora said while hovering at the loft door. 

“I can buy them myself, you know. I have money.” Sure, it wasn’t a ton of money, but Stiles was tired of other people always supporting him. He had his dad’s estate, and technically he still owned the house, which he hadn’t thought about in a long time. If he sold it, he’d have more money, though he wasn’t sure how he felt at the thought of losing his childhood home. 

Actually, he should probably offer it to some of the Supernaturals in town, but he didn’t know that he’d like people living there. Maybe Jackson, not that he thought the guy would ever leave the Hale house. 

“Practice makes perfect,” Lydia said haughtily. “I’m going to be checking in, so make sure you’re working on it.” 

“Yes mom,” he said sarcastically. Lydia cut him an offended look and Derek smirked at the reaction. 

“You two were made for each other,” she said dryly, then turned on her heel to head back down the stairs. Cora waved before following, the two of them exiting the building and locking up behind them. 

Derek turned to Stiles when it was clear the girls were gone, and they both stared down at Stiles’ wrists, where the cuffs he’d been wearing still sat snugly against his skin. 

When he glanced back over at the Werewolf, he got a shrug in return, which was basically a loud and clear, “No time like the present.” 

“Yeah,” he admitted with a soft sigh, clenching his hands into fists. “Might as well get working on it.” 

He was about to have the _worst_ month ever. 

* * *

“You’re cheating,” Stiles proclaimed, squinting at the digital board above their booth before turning to glare at Allison. “You’re totally cheating.” 

Her smile was so cheeky that he wanted to hate her, but it was hard to hate someone who had such adorable dimples. They were like a weapon. Those and Scott’s puppy eyes. And Lydia’s... everything. Stiles may have been a taken man—evidenced by the ever-growing array of hickeys on his neck, thank you _very_ much, Derek Hale—but he appreciated beauty and Lydia was truly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“I have good aim,” Allison insisted with a wink, moving away from the lane and coming to sit down by Scott. He was smiling, and Stiles suspected it wasn’t because his team was winning. He had one arm wrapped around Allison’s shoulders as soon as she was settled, and she leaned into him. 

They weren’t _technically_ together yet, but Stiles knew it was only a matter of time. They’d been spending even more time together than Jackson and Ethan had, and considering _they_ seemed to be a couple now—if Jackson’s weirdness and asking for dating advice was anything to go by, which was funny because Stiles was literally not the person to ask, what was he thinking?—it was only a matter of time before Scott and Allison were. 

Which would be difficult to explain to anyone, considering the rest of the pack didn’t even know Allison was friends with them. They knew she and Scott hung out, but they had no idea just how _much_ they hung out. As for Stiles and Lydia, people had no clue that they were ever around Allison, let alone that they were _friends_ with her.

Lydia had been very careful to avoid bringing Allison up around Cora. Not lying, just—omitting. Stiles had done the same with Derek, because he didn’t _have_ to mention that Allison was there, he could have a full conversation about his time at Scott’s without _once_ mentioning Allison. 

Even now, he’d told Derek he was going out with Scott and Lydia. It wasn’t a lie, he was out with Scott and Lydia. Allison just happened to be there, too.

Besides, Chris seemed to be mostly accepted by a few people. Not all, but Peter didn’t seem to _hate_ him anymore. Derek also didn’t seem to hate him. Cora still refused to be in the house at the same time as him, so that was a work in progress. But still, any progress was progress. And while Stiles knew their tolerance for Chris was because of his history with both helping Derek _and_ Stiles, it was also because of his current assistance with the raids. 

They’d done eight since their meeting in the Hale kitchen, but they were going to have to slow down for the next little while because they’d exhausted all the ones within driving distance from Beacon Hills. 

Well, within _reasonable_ driving distance. And Stiles still hadn’t actually joined Alex and Jackson yet, so he was hoping if they took a bit of a break, he could get his head back on straight, and be golden. 

Maybe end of April or beginning of May. That gave him a little over a month to get himself back under control and then he could actually be _useful_ again, and it coincided with his deadline for the cuffs that Lydia gave him. He really wanted to be useful again, it chaffed sitting on the sidelines like a kicked puppy. 

Stiles watched Lydia straighten her skirt as she stood to go and take her turn, moving up to the bowling balls and picking one up. It was actually kind of funny to watch her, because she was dressed like she was about to go to a fancy dinner—cute blouse, nice skirt, high heels that she had legitimately bribed the guy at the front to keep on because she _refused_ to wear bowling shoes—and yet when she moved forward to bowl, her form was perfect. 

He couldn’t help but wonder how many years it had taken her to get that down in heels. Lydia always seemed to have heels on, so she’d probably mastered many things while wearing them. 

She smirked haughtily and flipped her strawberry curls over her shoulder when she got a strike, evening them back up. Stiles whooped and held his hand up for a high five. She just arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him while moving past him to sit back down. 

“I can’t believe you left me hanging,” he insisted, mock-hurt, letting his hand fall back down. “I am wounded. _Wounded_.” 

“Tragic,” Lydia said with a smirk. Stiles slapped one hand to his chest, which earned him a laugh from the couple across from them. 

Scott stood up to take his turn, grabbing a bowling ball and rolling his neck. Stiles hoped he missed the shot, because he was a sore loser and he didn’t want to be on the losing team. Especially since the loss would be his fault, he sucked at bowling. 

Just as Scott was lining up the shot and getting ready to release, he fumbled and the ball bounced off the polished floor and right into the gutter. Stiles let out a loud cheer, jerking to his feet and bouncing up behind Scott.

“Better luck next time,” he said jovially, patting Scott’s back. Before he could reach for his own ball to take his turn, he caught sight of Scott’s expression and paused. 

That wasn’t a good expression. 

“Oh, hey! Same idea!” 

Uh oh. 

That was Kira. 

That was Kira’s voice heading in their direction.

And Stiles knew Derek had made plans with Kira tonight, because he hadn’t seen her for a while. 

And he also knew that Jackson had invited himself along, because Derek had been complaining about it. 

And he _also_ knew that Jackson was dragging Cora out with them because _she_ had been whining about not getting to spend time with Lydia. 

None of which would be a problem at all, if not for one very specific thing. 

“What the _fuck_?!” 

When Stiles turned to face the foursome, Lydia was still staring at the lane, resolutely not looking behind herself at where she _had_ to know Cora was. Lydia was staring at Stiles like he had all the answers, but he most assuredly did _not_ have all the answers, because he was specifically staring at _her_ to avoid looking at Derek.

But really, the one most likely to get murdered here was Scott, so it was probably a good thing there was a booth, Lydia and Stiles between Derek and Scott. 

“What the fuck?” Cora asked again, since nobody had answered her. 

Lydia made a face at Stiles for his lack of assistance, straightened defiantly, and then twisted in her seat with one of the most gorgeous smiles he’d ever seen plastered on her face. 

“Same idea. Did you want to join us?” Lydia asked, speaking to Kira. 

Who was standing a little further back from the Hale siblings looking like she wished she’d never spotted them. Jackson didn’t seem concerned either way, though he _was_ keeping an eye on Derek, like he was trying to figure out how mad he was. 

Stiles was too scared to look at him and figure out how mad he was. 

“What are you doing with _her_?” Cora demanded, sneering the last word and pointing at Allison.

Who looked extremely uncomfortable, but to her credit, she didn’t look scared. If anything, she looked like she felt guilty that she’d clearly started problems for the people who’d come bowling with her, and was probably worried they were all going to ditch her now. 

“Bowling,” Lydia replied easily. “She’s pretty good at it.” 

“Yeah, you’d have to have impeccable aim as an Argent, otherwise you’d risk missing all those moving targets,” Cora bit out angrily. She was speaking to Lydia, but her eyes hadn’t left Allison once. 

“I should go,” Allison said quietly, getting to her feet. 

Lydia turned back to her instantly. “No. Stay. We were here first. If Cora doesn’t like the company, there are plenty of other places she can go.” 

“You’re choosing _her_ over _me_?!” Cora demanded angrily.

“Cora—” Stiles said cautiously, but the sharp cut of Derek’s hand out of the corner of his eye told him to stay out of it and he shut his mouth. 

Lydia’s expression was cold when she turned back to her. “I happen to be enjoying myself at the moment. And in case you’ve forgotten, I also have reason to hate the Argents. Or did you forget how they got Stiles in the first place?” 

That shut Cora right up. Honestly, Stiles himself hadn’t actually thought about it until this moment, but it was true. When the Argents had come for him, it was Lydia they’d gotten their hands on first. They’d taken her and set things up so that Stiles would leave his protective bubble to help her. He’d been forced to go with the Argents before reaching her, so he didn’t actually know the extent of the damage done to her, but it was true that she had every reason to hate them too. 

Maybe not as much of a reason as Cora and Derek—and Stiles—but she had her own, and she was choosing to give Allison a chance. 

“We need to talk,” Cora finally said, turning on her heel and stalking away across the bowling alley. 

Lydia raised her chin almost defiantly, but she stood anyway, smoothing out her skirt, and walked purposefully after Cora, her heels clicking across the hard floor. The two of them moved out of earshot of the humans, likely because it didn’t matter if the Werewolves overheard. It was mostly Allison they didn’t want overhearing, and Stiles was positive he wasn’t even a thought because he was likely about to have his own uncomfortable conversation.

Wincing, he very slowly shifted his gaze to look at his boyfriend. Derek’s expression was closed off, his arms crossed, and when he saw Stiles finally looking at him, he turned on his heel and headed for the opposite end of the bowling alley from his sister. 

“Uh, you guys—why don’t you guys take our spot,” Stiles said to Jackson and Kira, moving around the booth so he could follow after Derek. 

“Idiot,” Jackson muttered to him while he passed. 

“Shut up Jackson,” he grumped back, hurrying after Derek. 

They stopped by the food area, the noise a little louder here because of people trying to get their orders in and the kitchen calling back to one another. That wouldn’t matter for them, because Derek didn’t speak and Stiles didn’t have to be loud for him to hear him. 

Derek took a seat at one of the empty tables, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, face still perfectly blank. Stiles winced and pulled the chair opposite him out before sitting down as well, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Derek seemed content to let him sweat, which was fair. Stiles kept doing things like this to him, and he could understand why Derek was so annoyed with him. He really needed to stop testing his patience. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Derek tilted his head and cocked one eyebrow in inquiry. Stiles made a face and shrugged one shoulder. 

“I don’t know. A while. I was, uh... she’d be over at Scott’s sometimes. You know, when we hung out.” 

He probably shouldn’t have thrown his friend under the bus like that because it was clear that Derek was going to have eyebrow words with Scott later. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t...” Sighing, he raked one hand through his hair, then rubbed his face. “I keep thinking it’s better to omit things. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, you know? But you always find out,” he said quietly. “And it hurts more every time you do. I’m not... I’m _sorry_. I just knew you’d be mad.” 

One of Derek’s hands jerked up in a clear, “Of course I’d be _mad_!” 

“She hasn’t done anything wrong,” Stiles said quietly. “She came here with her dad looking for a safe place to stay, but if none of us will be nice to her, she’s gonna be alone. And you should know as well as I do how isolating that can be.” 

Derek very condescendingly did a large sweep of the area with one hand, clearly saying that there were many, _many_ people who could be her friend. 

“Nobody trusts her,” Stiles insisted. “She’s an Argent. People won’t talk to her. When we got here, Scott had to get her shoes for her, because the people at the counter ignored her.” 

That, at least, earned him a frown, like Derek was confused. Like he didn’t understand why people would be acting that way. Stiles almost rolled his eyes. 

“It’s because of _you_ , stupid.” He kicked him lightly under the table. “You’re the Alpha, this is your home. She’s an Argent, and people know how much you suffered at the hands of Argents. She doesn’t want to cause trouble, she just wants to be able to have a life here. Lydia, Scott and I are probably the only people our age who actually talk to her.” 

Derek’s jaw was working, and Stiles could tell he was pissed. Really pissed. It was a toss up if he was pissed more about the omission, or the fact that it was Allison. 

“You don’t have to like her. I’m not asking you to be her friend,” Stiles insisted, repeating similar words he’d once said to Cora. “She’s trying to move forward, and if we don’t help her, then the only direction left to her is backwards. And I’d rather keep her on our side, wouldn’t you?” 

Derek gave him an unimpressed look at that, but Stiles just shrugged. He wasn’t wrong. Sure, he doubted Allison would run back to Gerard post-haste if she didn’t get her way, but if they isolated her enough and made her miserable enough, she’d start wondering what the point was of sacrificing the life she’d had to live a new one full of loneliness and bullying. 

They stared at one another for a long time, like they were trying to make the other concede defeat. Predictably, Stiles won.

He almost always did. 

Derek let out an angry huff, glanced towards the group, then scowled at Stiles. He motioned between the two of them, giving him a meaningful look, and Stiles nodded. 

“Yeah, I’m never alone with her, promise.” 

It was clear he didn’t like it, and the way he hit his chest twice with an angry look made it obvious he was saying he and Allison would never be friends, but he wasn’t going to cut her out. She’d never be pack, but she was allowed _near_ the pack. 

Honestly, it was more than he’d been expecting. 

“Thank you.” He started to stand, but Derek shoved one angry finger in his face, eyebrows raised pointedly. Stiles winced. “Yeah, punishment pending. Got it.” 

Derek let out a long, aggrieved sigh before raking one hand through his own hair and glancing back over at the booth. He motioned for Stiles to stand and did the same, moving around the table so they could head back. 

Stiles shifted into Derek’s personal space as they walked, pressing into his side in silent apology. Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, but still took the opportunity to flick him hard in the temple. Stiles bore it without complaint, it was his own fault. 

When they got back to the booth, Cora and Lydia were there, sitting across from Allison, Scott and Kira, who seemed to be trying to make conversation to lighten the mood. Jackson was at the lane lining up a shot. 

Cora was sitting on the outer edge, slouched angrily with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. Whatever she and Lydia had spoken about, it was evidently close enough to what he and Derek had, because while she didn’t look at all happy, at least she was _there_. 

Stiles moved past her and Lydia so he could sit as well, but he frowned when Derek kept walking forward. Scott tensed beside Allison when his Alpha approached, but Derek just stopped in front of them, and held one hand out.

Allison stared at it for a second, then looked up into Derek’s face before slowly reaching out to shake it. It was a short handshake, and Derek pulled away relatively quickly, but Allison nodded once in silent thanks for the acknowledgement. 

Derek turned his look on Scott, a very clear, “I’ll deal with _you_ later,” then moved past Kira so he could sit down, sliding over in the U-shaped booth until he was pressed up against Stiles. 

“Big softie,” Stiles insisted, kissing his cheek. 

The grunt he got in response was a very loud and clear, “Shut up.” 

* * *

Stiles had just settled down comfortably in his train car with a cup of hot chocolate, three cookies, and a book when he heard someone knocking on the building’s front door. Normally, he would be a lazy butt and just sit there with his drink and cookies and ignore it for Derek to get, but that wouldn’t work right now because Derek was in the shower. 

He debated for a few seconds whether or not to ignore it, but figured that would be a dumb idea. If it was someone from the pack who didn’t have keys, and no one answered the door, they might get concerned and sound the alarm. And if Stiles didn’t get up to get it, he knew Derek would, and he could _not_ handle a naked, towel-wearing Derek right now. 

Stiles was only one man. He had limits. 

Sighing and setting the hot chocolate and cookies aside carefully, he got to his feet and left the train car, jumping down from the sideways roof hatch and jogging to the door. He wasn’t stupid enough to just _open_ it so he moved up to it and called, “Who is it?”

“It’s Alex.” 

“Oh, hey.” Stiles moved to unlock all the locks and pulled the door open with a smile. “How’s it going?” 

“I’m doing well, thank you. And yourself?” 

“Good. Come on in.” He moved aside and made a grand sweeping gesture. She inclined her head in thanks while walking into the building and Stiles shut and locked the door behind her. She was looking around while moving forward, eyes lingering on the two train cars. 

“Interesting setup,” she said. 

“It was already like this.” He didn’t mention that all the damage to the foundation was Derek’s doing. That wasn’t what she was commenting on. “Actually, I have a blanket fort in that train car, wanna see?” 

He felt a bit like a child for how excited he got at the prospect of showing her, and her amused smile suggested she _also_ thought he was a bit of a child. To be fair, he wasn’t even twenty yet, he was allowed to be childish. 

She obediently followed him to his train car, climbing in behind him and nodding her approval at his setup when he sat down in his blankets. 

“Rose would enjoy this place very much.” 

“Yeah, where is she, anyway?” 

“She is with Parrish at the moment. He was kind enough to agree to sit her while I came to speak with you and Derek.” 

Stiles felt like something highly unpleasant was coming, and he braced himself for bad news, but before he could even begin to think up all the possible scenarios, he blinked in confusion at the next words out of her mouth. 

“Do you think Derek would be amenable to spending some time with Rose?” 

“What?” Stiles asked, confused. 

Alex’s smile was fond, her eyes distant, like she was thinking about the little girl while she said, “Rose has expressed interest in getting to know the ‘big teddy-wolf who doesn’t talk much.’” 

Stiles literally did the stupid movie thing where he put both hands on his cheeks and let out a huge gasp. “That... is the most adorable thing I think I’ve ever heard.” His grin almost split his face wide open. “Did she really call him a teddy-wolf?” 

“She hasn’t been around the two of you very much, but she often sees you leaning into him, and he hugs you when you do, so she considers him something akin to a living teddy bear.” 

Stiles let out another loud gasp, covering his mouth with both hands and positively _delighted_. Fucking hell, Rose thought Derek was a huge _teddy bear_?! This was _fantastic_ news! Stiles literally thought that was the most adorable thing, _especially_ since Derek always felt like he was inadequate given his curse. 

Yet here Alex was, talking about a little girl who thought he was someone worth getting to know. 

It was true that Rose didn’t really spend much time away from Alex, but that was kind of how she’d started being around Derek more. Whenever they’d been planning the raids before their small break, Alex was at the Hale house a lot, and Rose was left with various people to be watched. She hadn’t liked that very much, being left behind, so she’d asked Alex if she could just come along. It wasn’t really a setting for a child, but most of the planning consisted of ways to get in and out, and what to do if something went wrong. Anything not age-appropriate tended to go over her head. 

For some reason, Derek’s silence intrigued her and she’d loudly proclaimed that Derek was her new best friend—which Peter had pretended to be affronted about and gotten many hugs and insistences that he was cool, too. She seemed to be good for him, because like Stiles, she pretended nothing was wrong with him. She’d started dragging him outside to play when the conversations were getting ‘too boring,’ and he allowed it. He was a Werewolf, he could still hear anyway, and Stiles always made sure to fill him in on anything he may have missed. 

Though Rose had been spending _some_ time with Derek, it was never for very long because she was unusually patient for a child, and managed to sit still for hours before finally asking Derek to play outside. And on top of that, they hadn’t been planning as much lately since most of it right now was getting travel arrangements and accommodations organized for their next one, which Peter was mostly doing on his own. No need to plan and chat about anything until they actually had bookings done. 

Besides, Jackson and Alex were basically pros now, so the planning thing seemed to be more for Stiles’ benefit so he could jump in when he was ready. 

When there was a clatter by the hatch, Alex turned and Stiles looked over at it, both hands still over his mouth. Derek was climbing through it wearing black jeans and a grey T-shirt, hair still damp from his shower. 

“Did you hear?” Stiles asked, moving his hands from his mouth back to his cheeks. “Derek, you’re a _teddy-wolf_! I mean, it’s clearly because she hasn’t had the pleasure of experiencing Octo-Derek, or Leech-Derek, but teddy-wolf is pretty great, too!” 

Derek just rolled his eyes, but Stiles didn’t miss the small flush trying to sneak up his neck, _or_ the attempted suppressed smile. Fucking hell, Derek was thrilled too! This was the _best_! 

Stiles could fucking _kiss_ Rose for having all these wonderful people to choose from, and deciding that Derek was the best because he was _cuddly_! It was fucking _adorable_! 

“Hello Derek. Hope you’ve been well.” 

He shrugged in response, which everyone now accurately interpreted as him doing all right. No complaints, at any rate, which was always a good thing. 

The Werewolf moved through the train car to plop down beside Stiles, giving him a look at the number of cookies he had. Stiles just shoved one in his mouth in answer, and had to almost lie on his hands to protect the other two from a thieving boyfriend. 

“Alex is talking! Be polite!” Stiles insisted around his full mouth. Derek just bit teasingly at his arm with blunt, human teeth before straightening, giving her his full attention. Stiles stayed on cookie protection duty. 

“I know how you feel about leaving Stiles’ side,” Alex said. “To be frank, I am probably the person who understands this best, as it is always difficult for me to leave Rose’s side. However I am doing my best to improve on that front, and I was hoping that perhaps you would be amenable to doing the same and spending a bit more time with Rose. She is still young, and I am trying to avoid any lasting effects from her time at Harris’ as best I can. I was hoping spending more time with the teddy-wolf would be a good distraction for her.” 

Derek inhaled slowly, and it was clear he didn’t like it, but Stiles wasn’t going to let him decline. This would be good for him. For both of them, actually. Stiles had a lot of reading to do anyway, because the Vault was massive and he got distracted very easily. _Especially_ when his boyfriend was within reach so, really, having him out of the house would be a good thing.

Of course, it wasn’t like he and Derek didn’t spend time apart _ever_ , but this would be for longer stretches of time, and didn’t always guarantee that Stiles would be with another pack member, which he usually always was whenever he and Derek split up to hang with different friends. But Stiles was safe in the loft, he could survive on his own for a few hours without a babysitter. 

And Derek would be able to feel _normal_. Just hang out with Alex and a cute little girl who thought he was just the greatest thing. It would be so, _so_ good for him. 

“You should go,” Stiles insisted, nudging him as best he could while still protecting his cookies. “Not like, _every day_ , but every once in a while. I really think it would make a huge difference for her.” 

When Derek still didn’t seem convinced, Stiles sat up properly, staring him down. 

“It made a huge difference for me,” he admitted. 

Derek’s look said, “That’s different,” but Stiles just shrugged in response. It was true, Derek’s friendship had been such a blessing the past almost two years. Maybe it wouldn’t be the same, because Rose wasn’t a Spark, but she really liked Peter, and she wanted to know more about Derek, so clearly she saw the worth of having Hales in her life, same as Stiles did.

“Think about it?” Alex asked. “It would mean a lot to her.” 

Derek’s grunt confirmed he would think about it, but Stiles was going to make him go out and have _fun_. Derek deserved a little fun, after everything. 

Stiles took the opportunity to cram the remaining cookies he had into his mouth when Derek went to let Alex out, and spent the rest of the afternoon _extremely_ distracted, because hot Werewolf boyfriends really _were_ teddy-wolves, and it was hard to resist a good cuddling. 

* * *

Derek was acting weird. 

Well, no, not _weird_ , per se, but _secretive_. It was kind of a new experience for Stiles, and he didn’t like it. 

Not because Derek wasn’t allowed to have secrets, because of _course_ he was, but because it was weird, and Stiles didn’t like weird. 

He knew it wasn’t him, because Derek always pulled him in to cuddle when they slept, like he always did, and he kissed him good morning, and they still had lazy days on the couch where Stiles read some magic books or watched TV and Derek snoozed or occasionally played his guitar. 

Things weren’t different, but Derek was leaving a lot more often, and never let Stiles come with him. Which was fine, because time apart was a good thing for both of them, but it was so different than what Stiles was used to that it made him uneasy. 

He could admit that he _liked_ having the place to himself sometimes, because he knew how hard it was for Derek to leave him alone, but he seemed to be a bit more confident about it now. Stiles’ magic was really good now, and he periodically reinforced all the barriers around town to make sure they were still up to snuff. Chris and Allison passing through it still set off some alarms, because they _were_ still Hunters, but he kind of recognized how they felt, now. 

They still hunted, but only bad things that killed others. They’d been settling in really well ever since Chris had started helping with the raids and the unfortunate incident with Allison at the bowling alley. Though possibly _too_ well, in Derek’s opinion, since Scott and Allison had started dating last week. Neither Chris nor Derek were particularly pleased with that development, but both of them were too afraid of Melissa to put an end to it. The lady was _scary_ when she wanted to be.

And really, Stiles thought it was a good thing. Having a Hunter’s daughter dating one of the town’s Betas was a _good thing_. It was only solidifying their alliance, and Chris had been really great the past few weeks. He helped with every single one of the raids on Collectors, and his job—something to do with weapons, Stiles had tried not to really pay attention given his history with weapons—had been raking in a lot of money for him, some of which he used to help finance the construction of the pack houses. 

Peter seemed to hate him a little less by the day, at any rate. They would never be _friends_ , by any means, but they both respected each other, and that was good enough. Stiles couldn’t ask for miracles, he’d already gotten enough of those and didn’t want to press his luck. 

But still, everything else aside, he felt like Derek was keeping something from him, and it was bothering him. A part of him wondered if it had to do with his curse, or maybe even just Stiles’ magic in general. He hadn’t been doing great with exploding the cuffs off since Lydia’s visit the month before, but he was still _trying_. 

He’d managed to crack seven of them, but cracking them didn’t _remove_ them. It just split them open and allowed free reign of his magic, like when Allison hadn’t fully closed that one cuff. The last two he’d tried had kind of sort of melted weirdly to a point where they weren’t really staying on properly anymore, so he’d moved on to the last pair he had—which consequently, was the first pair, since he hadn’t wanted to destroy the faux-leather ones. 

He still wore them as much as possible, but was honestly looking forward to the day he could take them off and _keep them_ off. Still a ways to go, though for now he was waiting on a new shipment of cuffs to arrive.

It depressed him that it was a veritable _shipment_ , because Peter had ordered twenty sets. In a way, it was good, because he thought maybe Peter would get a reputation of having a lot of magic users he needed to keep under wraps which would spread to the Hunter community and suggest he was an ally to them. In another sense, it was bad, because it meant people knew he had a reason for ordering all the cuffs and Stiles didn’t really want an army of Hunters crossing into town. 

So far they were going pretty all right, and the multitude of Supernaturals they had made things extremely beneficial from an offensive standpoint.

After all, on top of all the rare Supernaturals they’d rescued who’d stuck around, they also had two more Alphas on top of Derek, a Witch since Tara had moved to town, a Warlock because of Caleb’s father, and various other family members of rares who happened to be Supernaturals themselves. 

Stiles had been particularly excited to meet a Fae who’d accompanied a teenage boy. She insisted she was only passing through while dropping him off, since he was half-Fae, but it had been almost a whole week and she still hadn’t left. Stiles wondered if maybe having escorted the guy meant she was no longer welcome amongst her kind. Alternatively, he thought she might have a crush on the guy, since she looked at him a lot. 

Either way, he was thrilled, because if he could get a Fae teacher for some of the more unknown magic he had, that would be _amazing_. And she didn’t hate him as much as he knew she could have. She seemed uninterested in speaking to literally anyone else in town, but she made an exception for Stiles, because he was the Spark, and thus had enough Fae magic in him to be worth her time. 

He would take whatever he could get, he just wanted to learn. 

Really, when he thought about it, their town was slowly but surely becoming the most powerful place in the world. They had people coming from all over the place, as far as China and Spain, and as close as the next county over. 

It meant there was a hugely obnoxious vetting process whenever someone new showed up, because they had to make sure they weren’t planning anything malicious, but one of their most recent raids had earned them the loyalty of a Telepath, so that was _extremely_ beneficial. 

Stiles felt good. He liked what they were doing, and how the town was evolving. He liked that the townspeople were coming together to help out, offering jobs where they could, and supporting all the new Supernaturals as best they could. It really made it clear to Stiles that the town of Beacon Hills had been chosen for a reason. 

His mother had put down roots here, and the Hale pack had already been there, and the town made it clear to everyone that they were on board with protecting people who needed it. Beacon Hills was such a special place, and he was glad he’d made his way back there. 

Would’ve been better with his father, but he knew he couldn’t have everything. 

Stiles had exactly five seconds to be depressed thinking about his dad before his phone rang and snapped him out of his upsetting thoughts. He pulled it out, seeing Peter’s name flashing back at him, and answered the call. 

“Hey Peter.” 

_“Little Spark. Busy day?”_

“Terribly, I’m overwhelmed with the amount of shit I have to do,” he replied sarcastically. 

_“I can imagine. Must be hard sitting in a train car reading all day.”_

“You have no idea.” 

_“I take it you’re free tomorrow? I thought it would be nice to have you over for brunch.”_

Stiles shrugged, even though he knew Peter couldn’t see him. “Sure. I can ask Derek if he’s down for it.”

_“Not Derek, little Spark. Just you.”_

“Oh.” Stiles didn’t know how Derek would feel about that, but then again, he’d been gone most days lately so he doubted it would be a problem. “Sure. Any particular reason?”

 _“I need a reason to want to spend time with you?”_ Peter asked innocently, which was about as ominous as he could possibly get. 

“I’ll be sure to come armed,” he teased.

_“Mm. Oh, and perhaps for one day, you can forego the cuffs, yes? They’re tacky.”_

Stiles glanced down at his free hand, staring at the leather-covered cuff and pressing his lips together. Honestly, it _had_ been a while since he’d taken the cuffs off. He’d only been doing it lately to switch out the broken ones, but that usually took about two minutes. He didn’t remember the last time he’d spent an entire day without them on.

“Sure.” 

_“You’ve been saying that a lot. Something on your mind?”_

“No,” he said, because he wasn’t going to talk about Derek with Peter. If he had something to say about Derek, he’d say it _to_ Derek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You gonna come by and get me?” 

_“I suppose. Be ready for ten. Goodbye, little Spark.”_

“See you tomorrow.” 

He hung up, but before he could put his phone away, he saw that he had a text message from Derek. When he opened it, he couldn’t help smiling a little bit. It was a picture of him and Rose making stupid faces. Stiles texted back that idiot was a good look for him.

He immediately received a middle finger emoji in response and laughed. 

Honestly, he kind of liked the weird relationship Rose and Derek had. He liked that Derek was spending time with other people more often. He knew he needed to get back to that too, but it was getting harder. Exam period was coming up, so a lot of his friends were cramming for that. Jackson had been spending an obscene amount of time with Ethan lately, and the other people he could spend time with were all working. 

He supposed he could make friendly with some of the new Supernaturals in town, but he was still a bit hesitant. Some of them knew what he’d done while with the Argents, and he was trying to keep a low profile until enough time had passed. 

Besides, spending time alone wasn’t all bad. A little lonely maybe, but Stiles had grown up lonely, so he was kind of used to it. Still, he missed Derek, and hoped whatever was going on resolved itself soon. 

When he’d had enough of reading about various forms of water magic, he shut the book and left it in his mess of blankets before climbing out of the train car and heading back upstairs. It was nearing five-thirty by then, so he started perusing the fridge for food so he could make dinner. He didn’t know if Derek would be coming back for it—sometimes he didn’t show up again until late in the evening—but he figured he could just make something and leave it in the microwave for him if he hadn’t eaten. 

Not like anything ever went to waste with a Werewolf around. 

He settled on making a deconstructed chicken fajita, wherein he made the filling and just didn’t wrap it in a tortilla. They didn’t have any, but he was craving Mexican, so he figured that would be good enough. Once everything was ready, he spooned it all into a bowl and went to watch some TV while he ate. 

Halfway through his dessert of cookies—Derek wasn’t there to police him, so he was on cookie number four—he heard a car outside. He didn’t bother standing up to check who it was, recognizing the sound of Derek’s Mustang well enough by now, and the signature that passed through his spell. He hurriedly crammed the cookies into his mouth, chewing quickly and grabbed one more so he could pretend it was his very first one. 

Derek’s expression when he appeared a few moments later suggested he didn’t buy it for a second. 

“Hey you. How was your day?” 

Derek just shrugged, detouring past the couch so he could kiss the top of Stiles’ head before going to the bathroom. 

“There’s food in the microwave if you’re hungry,” he called after him, the bathroom door shutting on Derek’s grunt of thanks. 

When he reemerged, he headed straight for the kitchen, and then joined Stiles on the couch with a bowl of fajita mix and a piece of toast, for some weird reason. He arched an eyebrow at him, but Derek just shrugged and started wolfing down his food. 

“I’m having brunch with Peter tomorrow, by the way,” he said, shifting slightly on the couch so he could poke at Derek’s side with one foot. “You gonna be able to fend for yourself tomorrow morning?”

Derek slapped one hand to his chest in a mock, “Oh no, whatever will I _do_?” sort of way and Stiles shoved him with his foot again. 

“You’ve been spending too much time with me if you’re getting that sassy.” 

Derek just arched an eyebrow at him, as if suggesting he’d _always_ been sassy and Stiles just hadn’t been paying close enough attention. 

“Whatever, weirdo.” Stiles turned back to the television, watching it while he listened to the clink of Derek’s fork against the edge of the bowl. 

They sat in silence for a long while, watching the random show Stiles had put on. He didn’t know what it was, but it was some kind of baking competition, and it’d been entertaining thus far so he figured he’d stick with it. 

When a commercial break came on and Derek stood up to head back to the kitchen, Stiles snagged the edge of his shirt on his way by. “Hey. You’re okay, right?” 

Derek frowned, cocking his head to one side in confusion. 

“Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.” 

The Werewolf reached down to lightly pat his cheek, then kissed his forehead before continuing towards the kitchen. Stiles watched him go, and figured whatever was on his mind, Derek would tell him when he was ready. 

So he just stared at the television until Derek came back, then threw his feet into the Werewolf’s lap once he was seated, smiling slightly when he immediately got a foot massage. 

Things were okay. Whatever Derek was hiding from him, he was sure it was nothing. 

* * *

“Uh, is anyone else coming?” Stiles asked while he slowly sat down at the kitchen table, eying all the food that greeted him. He felt like Peter forgot he was human and didn’t eat two times his body mass like all the wolves did, because this was—an overwhelmingly large amount of food... 

“No, I thought we could enjoy a quiet breakfast together.” Peter sat down in his own chair and reached for his coffee, taking a few large swallows before licking his lips and setting it back down. “You’ve been getting good at that.” 

“What?” Peter just motioned his wrists and Stiles glanced down at them. “Oh. Yeah.” 

As requested, Stiles had taken the cuffs off and left them at home. He’d used some healing magic to get rid of the injuries they’d left behind, and was actually surprised at how little it affected him. Usually healing magic pulled a lot of power and he got magic deficiency, but he figured after all the time he’d spent wearing magic-sucking cuffs, a little healing magic was nothing. 

He also felt really good today. Better than he had in a long time. He hadn’t noticed at first, but he always had a bit of a stomach ache lately, and it wasn’t until he took the cuffs off that he realized they were the cause. Made sense, he supposed. They couldn’t pull all his magic, but they affected him in other ways. Still, feeling relatively warm for the first time in a while felt pretty good. 

“New shipment should be arriving tomorrow,” Peter informed him. “You can go back to practising blowing them off.” 

“Can’t wait,” Stiles said sarcastically. Peter just hummed in amusement and motioned for Stiles to get started. 

Honestly, he didn’t know _where_ to start. There was just _so much food_. It ranged from pancakes, to eggs, to French toast, to muffins, to quiches. Literally anything he could think of that was considered breakfast food was on the table. There were even four different kinds of cereal, three kinds of milk—skim, chocolate, and for some horribly inexplicable reason, _strawberry_ —a fruit salad, a mound of bacon, hashbrowns, ham. Basically everything. 

“You know I can’t eat all this, right?” Stiles asked him uncertainly. 

“I know. I realized I had no idea what you favoured for breakfast so I made a little bit of everything.” 

“You made a little _lot_ of everything, no wonder you’re poor,” Stiles insisted with a small smile. He grabbed a few things and started piling them on his plate. The muffins looked incredible, but he knew those froze well so he figured he’d bring some home and stick them in the freezer. 

Peter just cuffed him lightly across the back of the head, but he was smiling while doing so, clearly pleased Stiles seemed interested in virtually everything on the table. 

It was a weirdly fun morning for him. He hadn’t really known what to expect, because Peter asking for him to visit usually had some bad news looming, but surprisingly this visit was all fun. They talked about how his magic was going, how his psyche was after a little less than five months away from Gerard, how he and Derek were doing, just little things. Peter even asked him what he thought about taking some courses in the fall, which Stiles was fucking _thrilled_ about because heck yes, university! 

He didn’t know if he was ready for that yet, though. He kind of wanted a little more time off to really nail down his magic before going back to school, so Peter said they could discuss it more later. If he took another year off, it wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

“How do you feel about your magic?” Peter asked, sticking a strip of bacon into his mouth. Stiles kind of wanted more bacon himself, but he felt like he might explode if he ate another bite. He’d definitely over-eaten, and the table was still full of food. 

Hopefully Cora and Jackson would be home soon and help eat it all up. 

“Fine, I guess.” Stiles pushed some remnants of his fruit salad to the edge of his plate, then ran his finger through the maple syrup there and stuck it into his mouth. 

“You been using it?” 

“I mean, I’m never _really_ using it,” he admitted. “I grew up without it. Sometimes I forget I even have it.” 

“You should use it more,” Peter insisted. “It’s a part of who you are. An extension of your being. You should utilize it as much as possible. It’ll help you improve.” 

That was true. Stiles still couldn’t replicate the freezing time spell, even though he’d tried many, _many_ times. And that weird teleportation one, too. He’d also accidentally super-sped across the loft a little while back, and had gotten a few bruises trying to do it again. 

He knew a part of it was lack of confidence. Stiles knew he was powerful, he knew he could do magic other people had only ever dreamt of, but he was kind of scared to use it sometimes. He didn’t want to hurt someone by accident, like he had Derek upon his return. And similarly, he didn’t want to do something irreversible. What if he accidentally travelled back in time or something? As far as anyone knew, that wasn’t possible magic, but he’d already done a few things that were _impossible_ so he didn’t want to bank on that. 

Turning into a shadow was something people hadn’t seen for centuries, and yet that seemed to be Stiles’ default when he got really scared. 

“Let’s practice, shall we?” 

Stiles looked over at Peter, confused. “What?” 

Peter motioned the items on the table. “Some of this will freeze, and whatever won’t can still be refrigerated and eaten tomorrow. I don’t imagine anything will go to waste with my nephew in the same household as you. So, let’s pack it all up.” 

When Stiles went to stand, Peter put one hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. 

“With your magic, Stiles.” 

“Oh.” He’d kind of hoped Peter was joking. 

“Tupperware is in the cupboard above the stove.” Peter leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Get to it.” 

“You’re just trying to avoid having to put it away yourself,” Stiles muttered, even though he knew that wasn’t true. Peter had always been up front about his intentions, which was somewhat unexpected given his personality. Stiles felt like it was a learned thing and had taken him a while to be like this. 

Sighing to himself, Stiles concentrated on doing as he was told. His first attempt to get the tupperware out had the plastic containers explode out of the cupboard. Stiles had been embarrassed about it until he realized Peter wasn’t laughing, the man instead trying to help him figure out the best way to control the amount of power he used for simple tasks. 

For someone who wasn’t magic-based, Peter was actually a very instructive teacher. He never laughed, even when Stiles could tell he wanted to, and while he did crack a few jokes, he made it very clear to Stiles that success always came after a multitude of failures. It was similar to what Lydia had told him about exploding off the cuffs, and he wondered if Peter had been the first person to say that and it had just stuck with Lydia as something worth keeping in mind. 

A task that would’ve taken them a few minutes by hand took almost an hour with magic, but Peter looked so damn pleased when the last container was pressed shut that Stiles couldn’t help but feel a little proud of himself. 

At the end of the day, Peter was right. Magic was a part of him now, and he needed to use it more often in his day to day, because constant practice would help him improve. 

It was okay to be scared of his magic, as long as he didn’t let it consume him. And given he knew what that looked like, considering he and Void were almost buddies at this point with how often Stiles had visited him, he felt a bit more confident in his ability to not lose himself. 

They were still sitting at the table with the plethora of packed-up leftovers—Stiles was amazed at how many containers Peter had, though some items had gone into re-sealable bags—when the doorbell rang. 

“Ah, right on time.” Peter checked his phone, nodded once, then stood and headed for the entrance. Stiles just cocked an eyebrow after him, and kind of figured it was Derek. When Peter returned through, he was with Kira. 

“Hey you.” She poked him lightly in the arm while passing him to fall into the chair beside him. “How’s it going? Been a while.”

“Yeah,” he agreed with a smile. “You don’t call, you don’t write. Rude.” 

She laughed at his imitation of her, reaching out for one of the muffins that they hadn’t packed up and taking a bite out of it. She made a sound of delight, then asked Peter who’d made them since he couldn’t cook for shit. Apparently that was a running joke, since Stiles had heard it more than once, even though he knew Peter to be an exceptional cook. He figured there was a story behind it, he’d have to ask someone about it later. 

The three of them chatted for a little bit, Stiles still unsure why Kira was there—though not unhappy for her to be—and once she’d finished her muffin and some coffee, she stood up with a stretch. 

“Well, let’s go then.” 

Stiles blinked up at her. “What?” 

“I’m kidnapping you.” She tried for a smirk, but her face was too adorable to fully pull a good one off. “Derek hogs you all the time, I wanted the chance to hang out. There’s a really fun laser tag place in town and I thought you and I could go and bond for a while.” 

“Oh.” Stiles grinned. “Yeah, that sounds awesome.” He’d never done anything like laser tag before. He knew what it was, because he wasn’t living under a rock, but given how he’d grown up he’d missed out on a lot of things. He was eager to go paintballing, but wasn’t crazy enough to think that was in his near future. 

“Begone,” Peter said, shooing them away. “I’ll have my nephew come collect the leftovers.” 

“Thanks for breakfast Peter,” Stiles said with a smile while getting to his feet. “I really appreciate it. It was fun.” 

“You are most welcome, little Spark.” Peter gave him what he could only describe as a fond smile. “Have fun.” 

“I will!” He waved and headed out with Kira. 

He didn’t really know what was going on, but he wasn’t opposed to it. He just thought it was weird he was having breakfast with Peter, and then was now getting into Kira’s Subaru so they could go play laser tag. 

They chatted a bit on their way there, not really about anything of importance. They spoke about Mason a bit, and Derek, and about how Kira was doing, what she’d been up to lately, how the store was doing. Just general, easygoing things. That was one of the reasons Stiles liked her so much, everything was always _easy_ with Kira. 

Something only reinforced when they showed up at the laser tag place and Stiles froze as soon as they walked in. 

He knew, in his brain, that none of the guns there were real. He knew that he, himself, hadn’t actually held one and fired it. But as soon as he walked in and saw all the weapons available for the game, he thought back to how many of them he’d seen on a daily basis while with Argent. He thought about the people he’d seen shot, the people who’d been hurt. 

How destructive weapons were, and how much pain they caused. They weren’t real, he knew it, but he also acknowledged that if he was in a high-stress environment while they were playing, and someone aimed one at him, he might lose his head and fire back with something a little less playful than a laser gun. 

“Stiles?” Kira asked, standing at the counter and giving him a weird look. 

“This—I’m not sure this is a good idea.” He took a step back, clenching his hands at his sides. He side-stepped when someone came in behind him so he wasn’t blocking the door, but he made sure not to move forward, either. 

Kira looked confused, and then suddenly horrified. She cursed and moved away from the counter, coming back to his side and touching his shoulder lightly. 

“That was my mistake. I should’ve been more considerate.” 

“No, it’s not that,” he insisted. “I want to play. I really do, I think it’d be fun. I just—not yet. I don’t want to have a moment and then hurt someone.” He didn’t say, “Like I hurt Derek,” but he was thinking it. 

“No problem. It’s totally fine,” she insisted, motioning for him to head back outside. “Sorry, I didn’t really think about that. It really hasn’t been that long, huh?” 

“Longer than it feels,” he admitted. “I talk to Satomi about it sometimes. She insists stuff like this takes time.” 

“The hard stuff always does,” Kira said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in tightly. “But you’re a strong guy, Stiles. You’ll get through this, and you’ll be stronger because of it.” 

“I hope so.” He really did, too. He liked to think his time with the Argents had somewhat helped him learn some of the background motivators for bad people in their world. Money seemed to be the most common, though power wasn’t far behind. Gerard already had both, so Stiles figured his motivator was just his belief. He was right, everyone else was wrong, and Supernaturals were the scum of the earth.

Like in comic books. _X-Men_ and stuff. The mutants weren’t trying to be bad people, but humans made them bad sometimes. Humans didn’t like what they didn’t understand, and they were jealous of what they didn’t have. Gerard had made it clear to Stiles many times that he wanted what he had, but since he himself couldn’t personally have it, he settled for owning Stiles and taking what he wanted from the world _through_ him. 

“You ever been to an arcade?” Kira asked once they’d settled back in the car. 

“No,” he admitted. 

Kira smiled, clearly pleased she’d found something else he’d never done that would be... not the same, but similar, at least. “There’s an arcade beside the bowling alley. Why don’t we go play a few games, and then we can grab some food and bowl afterwards?” 

“Sure.” Stiles smiled. “Sounds like fun.” 

“Awesome. And away we go!” 

Stiles was glad Kira was so easy to be around. Not that the others weren’t, but she acted with Stiles like she did Derek. Things were wrong with both of them, but she didn’t make a big deal out of them. If she stepped on their toes, she apologized, and moved on. Some of the others in the pack—Isaac being the most notorious—apologized to the point of annoyance and then got all weird and cagey. Like they didn’t know how to fix what they’d done.

The best way to fix it was honestly to apologize and move forward. And Kira was an expert at that. 

Smiling without entirely meaning to, Stiles was really glad Kira had decided to kidnap him for the day. Given she usually always hung out with Derek when the two of them split up, he didn’t actually see her that much anymore unless she dropped by. 

It was going to be a fun day, he could feel it. 

* * *

“I can walk myself home, you know,” Stiles insisted with a raised eyebrow over his shoulder while he and Kira climbed the stairs to the loft. It was dark as shit, like always, but since she was a Kitsune, he knew she could see him much more clearly than he could her. 

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I’m not allowed to visit the grumpy asshole you live with?” 

“He’s not home, he’s out with Rose and Alex.” Stiles had gotten a text about it from Alex earlier, saying she was kidnapping Derek and he’d be back late. He didn’t mind, he’d had a fun time with Kira, and figured he could do laundry and make some brownies or something. 

He didn’t want to bother Kira _all_ day, it was already well past five and she’d been with him since leaving Peter’s place. She insisted it wasn’t a big deal, but he really didn’t want to hog her. Besides, he _did_ have laundry, so it was fine. 

“All the more reason to come up,” Kira insisted, her voice cheerful. “It means I can make it clear I was there and Derek missed out on the pleasure of my company.” 

Stiles just laughed when he reached the landing, reaching out to pull open the loft door. It was locked, which made sense since Derek was gone.

He pulled his keys out to get it unlocked, then slid the door open with Kira beside him. 

Something felt wrong instantly, and he barely had time to register it when all the lights suddenly blazed on, almost blinding him, and he lashed out with electricity at the exact same moment people were shouting at him and loud popping sounds were heard. 

Someone screamed, sounding more startled than anything, and Stiles shoved Kira back behind him while his heart lodged itself in his throat and his eyes slowly focussed on what was in front of him. 

“Note to self: don’t startle a Spark,” someone said. 

It took Stiles’ panicked brain a few seconds to realize it was Isaac, and his eyes finally caught up to what the fuck was going on. 

The entire pack, and then some, was standing in the loft. It was so jam-packed, it was amazing they all fit. There were streamers and banners and balloons decorating the entire area, most of the pack had some firecrackers that had already been used, confetti littering the floor, and he could see various foods and presents spaced out through the loft. 

Thankfully, his aim was atrocious when he was startled, because the only thing he seemed to have hit was a group of five balloons which were now three balloons short, and the stairs leading up to the bedroom. Nobody had gotten hurt, and that was really the most important thing. 

Derek shoved at Isaac for his comment, gave Cora, Erica and Lydia scathing looks, then practically stomped to the door. 

Stiles didn’t realize he still had one hand up, ready to attack, and the other still pushing Kira back. He lowered them quickly as Derek reached him, patting his cheek lightly while his expression softened, a clear, “Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” he blurted out. “I was—I didn’t hurt anyone, right?” 

“Mr. Balloonman’s not gonna make it, but I didn’t like him, anyway,” Boyd said from beside the balloons Stiles had exploded. 

Derek turned to scowl at him, but Kira moved to wrap one arm around Stiles’ shoulders, squeezing him into her side. 

“How about we try that again, then?” She reached out with her free hand to shove at Derek’s chest, pushing him back through the door. He scowled, but allowed it, and Kira smiled before pulling the loft door shut. 

“What were we saying?” Kira asked, Stiles still horribly confused while the lights turned off inside the loft, the action visible due to the small gap beneath the door. “Oh, right. Derek’s going to be _horribly_ upset he missed me dropping by.” 

She motioned for Stiles to open the door. He gave her a somewhat confused look, but obeyed, pulling the loft door open. The same thing happened, with the lights turning on and people shouting, but there were no firecrackers this time since they’d apparently all been used up. 

Oh, and Stiles didn’t almost barbecue anyone. That too. 

His heart was still pounding in his chest, but he actually took note of what they’d said this time, and realized they were shouting, “Surprise!” 

He didn’t get it. He had absolutely no idea what was going on. 

“Why do you look so confused?” Lydia demanded, sounding annoyed and rounding on Peter. “You made a mistake.” 

“I assure you, I didn’t.” Peter looked a little concerned though, eying Stiles. “Why the stupid expression, little Spark? You resemble my nephew.” 

Derek turned to scowl at him, still standing right inside the door with his arms crossed, but he focussed back on Stiles relatively quickly. 

“I’m just confused, is all.” 

“Even if you’ve never had a surprise party before, I’m sure the concept isn’t foreign to you,” Cora insisted, though she seemed to be questioning whether or not they’d assumed he would know when he honestly, truly didn’t. 

“Why am I getting a surprise party?” he asked, even _more_ confused now. Were they celebrating something? 

The way everyone shared a look made him feel like he was a fucking freak of nature. What the hell was going on? He didn’t _not_ want a surprise party. Barring having fifty years startled off his lifespan, it was actually really thoughtful and he was looking forward to the food, since what little of it he could see looked delicious. 

“I know he’s an idiot, but is he _that_ much of an idiot?” Jackson demanded of someone near him. Nobody answered, so he likely hadn’t asked anyone specific. 

“Stiles, do you know what day it is?” Peter asked him, sounding a little more concerned. 

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t really keep track of the days anymore. I really only focus on specific months and if that month has a day worth remembering, then I do.” Like his father’s birthday, or the day he’d died, or Derek’s birthday. Things like that. 

“It’s April eighth,” Peter informed him. 

Testament to how slowly his brain was working after being startled so badly, it took a few seconds for the date to sink in, and Stiles did a weird full body jerk when he realized what that meant. 

“Oh, it’s my birthday.” 

“‘Oh, it’s my birthday,’ he says,” Boyd said with a fond chuckle. “You know how to pick ‘em, Derek.” 

Derek ignored him, but the scowl slowly melted away, replaced with the smallest of smiles, and he raised his eyebrows again in inquiry. 

“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” Stiles insisted, moving forward with Kira’s arm still around his shoulders. He slapped Derek lightly in the chest while they passed him into the loft. “I just didn’t realize... is that why you made me breakfast?” 

Peter offered him one of his rare, genuinely kind smiles, and Stiles slowly grinned back. He’d had no idea. He hadn’t really stopped to think about why he was having breakfast with Peter, or why Kira had spent all day keeping him away from the loft. He’d just figured it was another day and since Derek was going to be out, they wanted him to have some company. 

“We should’ve thought about the ‘surprise’ aspect being a little distasteful, given what you’ve been through,” Lydia said when she moved forward a bit. “Sorry about that.” 

“No, no, it’s fine.” Stiles waved one hand dismissively. “I was just startled. I’m really glad I didn’t hurt anyone.” 

“With aim like that, you could be a Stormtrooper.” Jackson snickered. Stiles flipped him off, but was somewhat pleased at the joke either way.

His heart was still pounding away in his chest, something most of the room evidently knew given their enhanced hearing, but they didn’t comment on it. People just slowly got back to normal after being startled by the unexpected attack and made their rounds to wish him a happy birthday. 

It was really loud in the loft, louder than he was used to. Parties like this were generally reserved for the Hale house, so it was a little weird for it to be happening in the loft. Probably would’ve been better downstairs, but they _still_ didn’t have lights, so it’d be a pretty dark party. 

Someone turned the television on to one of the music channels and people milled about chatting and making jokes. Kira eventually left him so other people could hog his attention, but Derek was never far behind. He didn’t hover worriedly like he used to, he just stuck close like he’d missed him and wanted to be around him without crowding him. 

Stiles found himself constantly being handed food, which was actually really fun, but also super filling. He felt like he’d eaten so much already that forcing more into his stomach was almost cruel. But it was so, so good he couldn’t help himself. 

Peter had even cleared off Stiles’ desk so it could be used as the designated dessert table and Stiles instantly made a bee-line for it when he found that out. He was never too full for dessert, no sirree! 

Derek just looked amused while Stiles ooh’d and ahh’d the various items. The largest by far was a sheet tuxedo cake that he _knew_ Jackson had ordered, because of what was written on it. 

“Congratulations on being born, Loser.” 

It was probably the best cake he’d ever seen and he specifically cut into it so he could eat the part with the word ‘Loser.’ It was a massive piece, which Derek clearly judged him on, but he just bumped him with his hip. 

“Shut up, it’s my _birthday_.” 

“Yeah, which your dumb ass didn’t even _know_ until you tried to electrocute us,” Jackson said, coming up beside him. He had a horribly wrapped present clenched in one hand, and Stiles could tell he was kind of uncomfortable. Like he had no idea how this kind of thing usually worked. 

“Your fault for trying to give me a heart attack,” Stiles countered. 

“Erica, Cora and Lydia pushed for the surprise party,” he explained with a slight shrug. “Derek was against it, but he got overruled.”

“I don’t mind the surprise aspect of it,” Stiles insisted. “I was just startled.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. Not like I care. You suck and all that, this is for you, I’m grabbing a burger.” 

Jackson practically shoved the present into Stiles’ chest, making him tilt backwards from the force of it. Derek standing beside him was the only reason he didn’t tip over entirely and land on his ass, because his boyfriend wrapped a steadying arm around his waist. Jackson stomped off like he was pissed, but Stiles knew he was just really bad at things like this. 

He really _was_ like Derek in a lot of ways. He hid his insecurities behind cockiness and an attitude problem. Stiles knew Jackson was just worried Stiles wouldn’t like his gift. Which was ridiculous, because it wasn’t the gift that mattered, it was the thought behind it. 

There were tons more presents around the loft, but he hadn’t opened any of them. He figured he’d do that when everyone left, but he felt like he really needed to open Jackson’s. He was the only one to actually _give_ it to him, which meant he wanted to know sooner rather than later if Stiles liked it or not. 

He passed his plate of cake to Derek, who took it for him and was a good boyfriend who _didn’t_ take a bite out of it. Stiles peeled away the tape at the back, feeling somewhat touched that Jackson had wrapped the present at all since he seemed to be so bad at it. Once he’d ripped through the paper, he found a small, flat box. Putting the paper on the dessert table, since he had nowhere else to put it, he opened the lid, and frowned at the contents. 

He loved it, that wasn’t a problem, he just wasn’t sure he understood it. 

It was an amazingly detailed, framed, glossy print of Superman in flight. Well, of _a_ Superman, who looked a little bit like Stiles. The backdrop looked like some kind of blurred out mansion, and the sky was dark. 

Stiles didn’t understand until Derek pulled his arm out from around his waist and flipped it over. 

On the back of the frame, written in black sharpie, was the word, “Thanks.” 

That was it. Just the one word. And Stiles felt it hit him like a ton of bricks. 

He didn’t often stop and think about what he’d done to help people. He agonized over and over about what he’d done while with the Argents, but the people he’d helped—like Mason, and Jackson, and even Derek—didn’t cross his mind except in fleeting moments. 

He knew he’d helped people, of course he did. He was happy about it while he was doing it, but once it was over he didn’t really think about it much, because it was the right thing to do. Helping people was a natural reaction for him. If someone was being hurt, he was going to help them. 

Stiles had gone into Harris’ place with the stupidest plan in existence, no backup and absolutely zero idea what the fuck he was doing. Even though Jackson had been forced to come back to help him in the end, the only reason he’d even had the opportunity to _choose_ to come back was _because_ Stiles had gotten him out. 

Jackson had been trapped with Harris for eight years of his life, and Stiles had shown up and gotten him out in only a few _hours_. 

They never really spoke about what that meant for Jackson, how he’d felt finally being free, how grateful he was that Stiles and his stupidity had actually gotten him out of there. It was just one of those things that had happened and then never been brought up again. 

But seeing this picture made him feel like they didn’t talk about it because Stiles didn’t really give it much thought, and Jackson didn’t know how to express how much it meant to him. Stiles had no idea who’d done the drawing, whether it was another one of Jackson’s many talents, or he’d gone out and found someone to do it for him, but it really didn’t matter. 

What mattered was how much it meant to Jackson, and how hard it hit Stiles that it actually meant _that_ much. 

He passed the picture over to Derek, who took it with his free hand, and then made his way through the sea of bodies in the loft, searching for Jackson. He was hanging out in the kitchen where there was more food on the counters, speaking to Mason and Liam about how lame the party was—because he was Jackson, and that was always going to be his thing. Stiles moved up behind him and, without a word, wrapped his arms around him in a fierce hug from the back, pressing his cheek to Jackson’s shoulder. 

“What the—get off me, Stilinski! What the fuck is wrong with you? Get off before you infect me with your stupid!” 

If Jackson honestly wanted him to back away, there was nothing Stiles could’ve done to stop him. The fact that he _wasn’t_ made it very clear he didn’t mind as much as he pretended to. He just had a reputation. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said quietly. He didn’t say for what, because he was sure Jackson knew. Thank you for coming back, thank you for sticking around, thank you for staying with Derek, thank you for being my friend. The list was actually quite long when it came to all the things Stiles wanted to thank him for. 

He released him after a moment, and left the kitchen, heading back to Derek. He had a fond smile on his face while he held Stiles’ piece of cake back out and Stiles scowled at him.

“Shut up. Asshole.” He shoved a huge bite of cake into his mouth and turned his back on Derek to go back to milling through the crowd in the loft. 

It was fun, having them all there. He got to chat and catch up with everyone, and got to learn a bit more about the people they’d saved that he hadn’t really had a chance to get to know yet. He noticed Ethan and Aiden, the twin Alpha Werewolves, were kind of hovering in a corner by themselves, but before he could head over to check in with them, Jackson had shown up and started making conversation. 

All in all, it was an amazing night, and while he didn’t open anyone else’s presents before they all headed out, he knew he’d have tons of thank you texts to send in the morning. He would open them probably after a good night’s sleep, because he didn’t want to rush through them and make them less meaningful. Every single one was important to him, because of the people who’d given them. 

It was almost one when the last group finally left, being the original pack plus Jackson. They’d stayed late to help clean up and put food away, which was appreciated since the place was kind of a disaster. 

Isaac planted a huge kiss on his cheek, then ran away at the growl he got from his Alpha. Boyd just patted his shoulder in farewell and told him to drop by the diner again soon so he could treat him to breakfast. Jackson avoided looking at him while heading out and just grunted a goodbye, which Peter seemed to find particularly amusing. Because he was an asshole. 

When the door downstairs finally closed and all the locks engaged, Derek shut the loft door, locking that one as well, and turned to raise his eyebrows at Stiles. 

“It was fun,” he confirmed with a smile. “It was. I wasn’t expecting it, so it was really nice. Thank you.” 

Derek shrugged like it was no big deal, but it was obviously a huge weight off his shoulders to find out Stiles had enjoyed himself. 

Stiles stretched loudly, feeling fatigue starting to set in, and motioned the stairs. “Ready for bed? I ate so much today I feel like I can probably fall into a food coma.” He laughed slightly, turning to head for their bedroom, when Derek’s fingers brushed his arm lightly. He turned back to him and saw that he looked... kind of uncomfortable. 

No, maybe uncertain. Or nervous, even. 

He nodded his head to the couch in inquiry, a little hesitant, and Stiles frowned. It took him a few seconds to realize that, even though he wasn’t opening any of his presents until the morning barring Jackson’s, there was actually one more he was definitely willing to open now. 

“Sure.” He smiled and moved towards the couch, sitting down on the end of it and bringing his feet up onto it so he was sitting with his legs crossed over each other, gripping his ankles with both hands. 

Derek let out a small breath, like he was psyching himself up, and then disappeared up the stairs. Stiles cocked an eyebrow over the back of the couch, but Derek came back down moments later with his guitar. Stiles hadn’t noticed it had been moved, but he supposed it made sense. There’d been a lot of people in the loft, and it risked being damaged if someone fell on it or something. 

When he reached the first floor again, Derek moved to sit on the other end of the couch, settling himself in with the guitar and then clearly procrastinating while making sure his tuned guitar was still actually tuned. 

It took Stiles exactly two seconds to realize what was happening, and the second he did, his heart started beating double time in his chest. He knew Derek had noticed, because how could he not, but he resolutely kept his gaze on the guitar and what he was doing. 

When he finally seemed to have run out of ways to procrastinate, he let out another small breath, like he was steeling himself, and began to play. 

It was a different tune from the other one Stiles had heard from him in the past. This one was a bit lighter, had a bit of a happier lilt to it. It flowed smoothly, and for some reason it was making Stiles’ eyes water. 

He finally understood why Derek had been disappearing for hours on end every day the past little while. He was writing him a fucking _song_ for his birthday, and he couldn’t very well do that while Stiles was around. 

Words were failing him right now, not that he’d have spoken while Derek was playing anyway. He was just so overwhelmed at the idea that he’d given Derek a way to express himself, and he was doing that by writing a song for Stiles. 

He sat there staring at him, at the way his fingers moved over the guitar strings, his look of concentration while he struggled to ensure he played the correct notes, the way his body was angled in Stiles’ direction as if to make sure he knew without a _shadow_ of a doubt that this song was for him. 

When it finally finished, Stiles honestly didn’t know what to say. He knew at least one tear had spilled over, but he didn’t bother trying to wipe it away. Derek glanced over at him almost hesitantly, seemed surprised at the look on his face, and smiled. 

Stiles finally kicked himself into gear and he sniffed, shrugging his shoulder. “Yeah, it was okay. You know, not bad, I guess.” 

Derek let out a laugh, because it was obvious Stiles had loved it. He leaned over to kiss his forehead, then pressed his own against it. 

Nothing said, “I love you” quite as clearly as all the different ways Derek made it known to him. 

“I love you, too,” Stiles insisted, wiping at his nose and laughing. “You’re an asshole, but I love you.” 

Derek pulled back so he could flick him in the forehead, then motioned at the banner still running along the top of the railing up in the bedroom. Stiles looked over at it, which read, “Happy Birthday.” 

“Thanks.” Stiles grinned at him. “It was amazing.” 

Derek motioned the bathroom, telling Stiles to go first so they could get ready for bed and head up. He complied, kissing his boyfriend lightly before standing and going to get himself organized for the night. 

He felt like he was moving more slowly than usual, like the overwhelming emotions of the day were finally catching up with him. They were all good things—friendship, family, love—but it was a lot for one day. 

When he finished up in the bathroom, he headed upstairs to change while Derek took his turn. Stiles kind of wanted to shower, but it was so late he figured he’d just shower in the morning instead. He didn’t necessarily have a shower schedule, morning or evening didn’t matter, it was more just when he felt like he needed one. 

Crawling under the covers once he was in his pyjamas, he waited for Derek to come upstairs and join him. It didn’t take long, the Werewolf dumping all their dirty clothes in the laundry—Stiles _still_ didn’t pick up after himself, whoops—and then climbing into bed once the lights were turned off. 

When Stiles started to turn into him like he always did, Derek’s hand found his shoulder and pressed him back. Stiles frowned while he was pushed away, being manoeuvred onto his back, and Derek very slowly climbed up onto him, red eyes flashing briefly while he watched Stiles’ expression, as if making sure of his welcome. 

Stiles just smiled and reached up to wrap both arms around Derek’s neck, pulling him down. He was never going to get tired of kissing Derek, because it was legitimately the best thing in the world. He felt like their mouths fit together so perfectly, and he loved dragging his nails through his stubble, and the way Derek always circled his tongue like he couldn’t get enough of him. 

The kiss was slow, almost lazy, which made sense given they were both tired, but it was also comfortable. They were so in sync nowadays that it felt like the easiest thing in the world, being with Derek. He never wanted to live in a world without Derek, because he literally didn’t know how he would survive. 

Large, warm hands slowly slid up under Stiles’ shirt, pushing it up until it became clear Derek wanted it off. Stiles broke the kiss and released Derek’s neck so that the Werewolf could pull the shirt up and over his head. He tossed it onto the other side of the bed, which Stiles appreciated since he didn’t want it landing on the floor given he’d probably put it back on later. 

They were kissing in seconds, Derek’s hands moving slowly, as if exploring every inch of Stiles’ torso. Stiles felt like he already knew Derek’s well enough, so he contended himself with wrapping his arms around his back, dragging blunt nails along his skin. Not hard enough to hurt, but just so that it was evident Derek was driving Stiles fucking _crazy_. 

He noticed when the speed started to increase, Derek slowly but steadily beginning to move just a little faster. He broke the kiss off more regularly, breathing hard and biting along Stiles’ jaw and down his neck. When Derek pulled a bit of weight off him, Stiles jerked when there was suddenly a hand at his crotch, palming him through his sweats. 

That was new, but definitely _not_ unwelcome. Stiles had been thinking about moving things along with Derek for a while, but he hadn’t wanted to push. He still didn’t really know much of what had happened to him all those years he’d been with Kate, so he’d just figured they’d do this at Derek’s pace. 

Apparently Derek’s pace right now was _hungry_ , because he was biting down maybe a _touch_ too hard on his neck, and rubbing him through his pants a little more aggressively than Stiles was comfortable with. It wasn’t painful though, just very clear Derek was a bit out of his element, so Stiles didn’t say anything and just let him do as he pleased, still dragging his nails along Derek’s spine. 

He could feel himself getting hard, rocking his hips up into Derek’s hand while little puffs of air escaped him, eyes sliding shut. Fuck, this was happening. They were actually doing this. Jesus, Derek fucking _did things_ to him without even trying, this was crazy. 

Derek shifted on top of him again, pulling a bit more weight off him, and Stiles could tell based on how he was positioning himself that he was about to pull off his own boxer-briefs. The hand previously pressing against his crotch shifted, knuckles brushing against his stomach on their way to the side of his own body to grip at the elastic of his shorts. 

Stiles’ eyes opened, and he’d never gotten turned off so quickly in his entire life. 

One hand left Derek’s back, reaching down and he grabbed at the one that had brushed against his stomach, already tugging at the boxer-briefs to get them down. Stiles forced it to stop, feeling his chest clench. 

Because while it had been brief when the hand had brushed his stomach, it was much clearer now while he was gripping it tightly with his own. 

Derek’s hands were shaking. 

He didn’t actually want to do this. He was forcing himself to. He was pushing himself into something he wasn’t comfortable with, because he thought it was what _Stiles_ wanted. Because he wanted to give him something else for his birthday, even if it crossed one of his own lines. 

Stiles wasn’t okay with that. He’d never had sex, so he didn’t know what he was missing. And even if he did, he wasn’t going to be like Kate. He wasn’t going to make Derek think that the only way he could ever want him was if he was willing to put out. Their relationship had never been about sex, so there was absolutely _no_ reason for Derek to push himself past what he was comfortable with. 

They had a very physical relationship, but not a _sexual_ one. Stiles was just as happy getting fucked into the mattress as he was cuddling together on the couch watching a really bad movie. 

Derek let out a small grunt, clearly trying to convey his confusion while Stiles couldn’t see his face in the darkness. 

“You’re not saying it, so I’m saying no for you,” Stiles said quietly, tightening his hand around Derek’s still trembling one and forcing him to move it away from his own shorts. “I’m not like her, Derek. I’ll never ask you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. You don’t have to push yourself just because you think it’s what _I_ want. Even if it is, nobody has the right to make you do something you don’t want to do. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not in a hurry. So when you honestly want to give this a shot, I’ll be right here. Until then, you stop where you’re comfortable, and I’ll respect that.”

Derek was silent above him, and it occurred to Stiles that he’d probably never been given a choice in this kind of thing before. Kate had just taken, and taken, and taken. Derek had never had the opportunity to say no. Even now, while with Stiles, someone he _knew_ would never hurt him, Derek still didn’t think he had the right to say no. 

And that really, _really_ hurt. 

“Why don’t we go downstairs, have some more cake, and watch a movie? It’s still kind of my birthday, so you can’t police my sugar intake.” He brought his other hand around to push lightly at Derek’s chest so he’d roll off him. “I kind of feel like ending my birthday by cuddling anyway, so it works out.” 

Derek didn’t roll off him. Stiles kept shoving lightly at his chest, but he was just hovering over him, still as a statue. It seemed to take a long time for him to realize what Stiles was saying. 

He wasn’t saying he didn’t _want_ Derek—because Lord knew he did—but he was saying he didn’t want Derek if _Derek_ wasn’t comfortable. Because Stiles really wasn’t like Kate, he didn’t understand how literal rape was a turn on. Stiles had never gone soft so fucking fast in his entire life, but the feel of Derek’s trembling hand, and the clear discomfort he felt at what they were about to do killed his libido as effectively as if someone had taken it out back and shot it. 

Finally, Derek moved, but he didn’t roll off him. He just leaned down to bury his face in Stiles’ neck, and hugged him so tightly a few joints cracked in protest. He’d gotten his arms under Stiles’ body, and was holding him so close it was like he was trying to fuse them together. 

Stiles managed to get his arms awkwardly wrapped around Derek’s lower back, since the way he was being held had them kind of trapped against his sides. But he did what he could, turning his head to kiss at whatever part of Derek’s head he could reach. He mostly got hair in his face, but it didn’t matter, because nothing could compare to the relief he knew was rolling off Derek in waves. He might not have been a Werewolf, but he also wasn’t an idiot. 

Derek was fucking _relieved_. 

“Come on, big guy. Let’s go eat some more cake and watch a really bad movie. Or a good one, guess it depends on what we find on Netflix.” 

Derek held him for a few seconds longer, and then finally released him so they could both stand up. Once they got onto the couch with their cake and a blanket, Derek was holding him against his chest so hard it was getting a little painful, but Stiles didn’t have the heart to tell him to loosen his grip. 

He was very clearly overwhelmed, and Stiles was going to let him come back from that in his own time. And he was never, _ever_ going to push Derek further than he wanted to go. 

Because Stiles was never going to be Kate Argent, and he was glad that, in this moment, Derek knew it, and things were finally going to be okay. 

* * *

A loud bang echoed through the area and Stiles jumped a mile high. “Oh God!” 

The bang was followed by a clatter and he stared down at the cuffs that were lying on the ground, cracked completely in half. Derek was beside him instantly, obviously having been startled by the bang as much as Stiles had been, and he checked Stiles’ wrists for injuries. 

There weren’t any, barring the wound where the spike pressed into his skin, but that didn’t matter. Stiles was too busy staring at the cuffs on the ground, because he’d done it. 

He’d _done_ it! 

“Derek, I got them off.” He let out a loud laugh, then turned to grab Derek’s face in both hands, giving it a shake. “I got them off! Yes!” He kissed him once, laughed again, and then let him go so he could rush off to grab another set. 

Derek grabbed his arm before he could make it too far and tugged him back, bringing one hand up to his face and kissing him more slowly. 

“No,” Stiles insisted, pulling away even as Derek kept pressing forward. “No, no distractions! No, stop it, bad dog!” He flicked Derek in the forehead, which earned him an annoyed look, though it was likely more about the ‘dog’ comment. 

The expression he got suggested, “You started it.” 

“I was _excited_ , okay? I finally blew the cuffs off. That bang was loud though, Jesus. I thought someone was shooting at us.” He let out another laugh, managing to pull free from Derek and hurrying to the cuffs. They always had a huge supply of them, because Stiles had been practising blowing them off a lot the past two months. He generally cracked them, but getting them fully blown off was more difficult. Today was his first success, and by God, he was going to try again while he had the momentum. 

He bounced back to Derek with a fresh set, the Werewolf sighing in exasperation while pulling out his phone and handing it over. Stiles went about setting the cuffs up, as normal, cranked the power to the top setting, then handed the phone back. Derek pocketed it, snapped the cuffs onto Stiles’ wrists—he was still thrilled at how little they affected him anymore—and then motioned for him to have at it while backing away. 

“Okay. Okay.” Stiles shook his body out a little bit, trying to loosen up his muscles. He brought both hands up, palms up and clenched them into fists. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his magic. 

He’d been doing really well lately. Not like, exceptionally or anything. He still wasn’t _amazing_ , but he was _good_. Stiles liked to think he was good. He could do a lot of things with magic now, though still not the time freezing one, no matter _how hard_ he tried. He figured he just wasn’t good enough. He needed more practice or something. 

Pushing the thought from his mind, he slowly but surely increased the amount of magic he was putting out, feeling the cuffs on his wrists beginning to hum in displeasure. He never really focussed on any one particular spell when he did this, he just thought about his magic as a whole. Just about ramping it up, getting it as high as he could manage, and then—

“Fuck!” Stiles jumped when another loud bang sounded and the cuffs clattered to the floor, the edges smoking. He let out another hysterical laugh and jumped his way over to Derek, practically launching himself into his arms. 

Derek was smiling, but he also clearly thought Stiles was an idiot. He didn’t look surprised in the slightest, which made sense, because Derek had been the one insisting for weeks that Stiles could do it, and he was just worried about messing up so he wasn’t pushing hard enough.

Some days, Stiles really regretted getting that dictionary back. Derek was kind of bossy.

It was hot. 

“Thank you for believing in me,” Stiles insisted, kissing him again. Derek was basically holding all his weight up, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Almost there.” 

Derek gave him a look. “ _Already_ there,” it said. 

“Nope. Just almost.” Stiles kissed his nose and then slid off him, Derek letting him go so he was standing on both feet again. “If I can explode every single one of those cuffs in the box, _then_ I’ll be there.” 

Derek’s hand slid down Stiles’ arm to his wrist, tapping it lightly with his index finger in inquiry. 

Stiles grinned. “Yeah. As soon as I can explode them all without even trying, we’re not getting anymore.” 

That seemed to be the best news Derek had ever heard because he did a full body sigh and smiled. He reached out to lightly pat one of Stiles’ cheeks, and jerked his chin towards the box of cuffs. Apparently now that the end of this nightmare was in sight, he wanted Stiles to get there faster. 

Stiles grabbed another pair, set them up, and let Derek snap them on. Then the Werewolf wandered away, heading upstairs to the loft. Stiles didn’t dwell on it, since he was working anyway, and just stood in the middle of the open space staring at the cuffs once more. 

Just when he was starting to think maybe it had been a fluke the first two times, the third set exploded off with another bang that had him jump _again_ and he let out a ridiculous laugh before prancing stupidly back to the box. 

He was in the process of getting them out when the locks all clicked and the door opened. Jackson started to shut it, then realized Stiles was right there, and paused, giving him a weird look. Then his eyes lowered to the cuffs and his expression hardened. 

“What are you doing with those?” 

“Practising,” Stiles informed him. He’d forgotten until this moment that not everyone knew about him and the cuffs. Only Derek, Peter, Lydia and Cora knew what he’d been up to with them the past few months, so it was strange to be asked that question. 

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?” 

“Come here, I’ll show you.” Stiles motioned him forward with a grin.

Jackson was hesitant, but he obeyed, moving up to Stiles. When Stiles motioned for him to pull out his phone, Jackson looked _pissed_ but he did it anyway. Evidently curiosity was winning out, in this case.

Stiles got the new pair of cuffs set up, then handed Jackson his phone back. His expression was livid and Stiles saw him turn down the power. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jackson demanded angrily just as Derek headed back down the stairs. “Are you trying to hurt yourself?!” 

“Would you calm down? It’s fine,” Stiles insisted, making a grab for his phone. Jackson held it out of his reach, but that only made it easier for Derek to come up behind him and snatch it from his hand. 

Jackson rounded on him furiously. “You knew about this?” Derek just cocked an eyebrow at him and put the power level back to the maximum. “Are you _insane_?!” 

“Jackson, will you chill?” Stiles demanded with a sigh. “If Derek’s on board, don’t you think there’s a reason? I’ve been doing this for months, it’s fine.” 

“It’s not _fine_ ,” Jackson insisted angrily, turning back to him. “You don’t know what those cuffs could be doing to you!” 

“It’s why I’ve been practising.” Stiles held them out to Derek for him to snap them on. He got one on before Jackson grabbed the second one and held it out of reach. Before he could open his mouth to bitch about it, Stiles closed one hand in a fist and tugged. 

The cuff flew out of Jackson’s hand. 

And hit Stiles in the face. 

“Fuck!” He stumbled back a step, hand coming up to clutch at his mouth while Derek quickly caught the cuff before it hit the ground. “Ow! Fuck.” He pulled his hand away from his mouth, seeing blood on his fingers. “This is your fault,” he insisted to Jackson. 

“You’re being stupid,” Jackson insisted, though with less heat this time, like he was trying to figure out what had happened. Because Stiles was wearing one cuff, and had used magic strong enough to wrench the other from his hand when he knew the power was at the maximum level. 

“Just shut up and watch,” Stiles insisted, letting Derek snap the second cuff on. He reached forward with one hand before Stiles pulled away, pressing his thumb gently to Stiles’ injured lower lip. Stiles just smirked at him and brought it into his mouth to suck on it. That had Derek pull his hand back quickly and scowl. 

“Tease,” Jackson muttered. 

“He loves it,” Stiles insisted with an over-exaggerated saucy wink. He took a few steps back, holding both hands up again. “Let’s do this.” 

“Do what?” Jackson demanded, crossing his arms and still clearly pissed off. 

Stiles closed his eyes so he could concentrate, pushing the power output up. He was starting to get a little tired, because doing this wasn’t exactly easy, and he’d already done it three times now. But he figured even that was good practise. If he could do all seven cuffs he had left in a row today, it meant he would always be able to get free no matter what. 

“What the hell am I looking at?” Jackson asked, annoyed. 

Derek shushed him irately, but Jackson just shushed him right back and was in the middle of insisting he was going to get Peter when a loud bang interrupted him mid-sentence. 

“Jesus, shit!” Jackson shouted, and Stiles jumped when he opened his eyes to find the guy right in front of him, eyes blue, scales crawling up the side of his face from his neck, and hands grabbing at Stiles’ wrists urgently, checking them for damages. 

Stiles let him look his fill, because he knew Jackson wouldn’t calm down until he was _sure_ Stiles was okay. Once he seemed to recognize that he was, the scales slowly started to fade, but Jackson’s eyes remained electric blue. 

“What the hell did you do?” 

Derek reached them then, bending down to pick up the cuffs and holding them up for Jackson to see, giving them a little wiggle. 

They were cracked clean in half again and Jackson’s eyes finally returned to normal before they shot to Stiles, stunned. 

Stiles just grinned. “I can explode them off. I mean, that’s new, because before I could only crack them, but now I can flat out blow them right off my wrists.” 

Jackson’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He was just staring at Stiles like he’d never seen him before. Like he had no idea who this person even _was_. 

Stiles thought that maybe this was the first time he’d done something that made Jackson truly realize, “Oh. This is the Spark. This is what he can do.” 

It was a good feeling. He was glad people were starting to take notice, because it meant he was honestly starting to _become_ a real Spark. 

He hoped his parents were watching. 

And he hoped that they were proud. 

* * *

“So, how’re you liking Beacon Hills?” Stiles asked, poking at his eggs with a small frown and trying not to be too bitter about it. He’d asked for pancakes, but Boyd had made him eggs because Derek had conveyed the fact that Stiles was eating too much sugar lately. Jerk, Stiles was going to turn his hair blue later or something. 

“It’s actually a lot better than I expected it to be,” Allison admitted, eating her breakfast with a perfectly happy look on her face since _she_ had actually gotten her order. Seriously, Stiles was pissed. “I always thought small towns would be kind of boring, but it’s actually a good one.”

“I’m sure the male population available to you is also helping with that decision,” Stiles insisted with a small smile. Allison flipped him off, but at least she was also smiling. 

Things had been going really well between her and Scott ever since they’d become official. The Hales were still a little unhappy, and Chris clearly found it uncomfortable, but everyone was dealing with it and things were actually going really well, considering the bumpy start in January. Besides, Chris had been a really good ally since his arrival, so Stiles knew everyone was learning to tolerate having Argents around. 

Isaac seemed to be showing an interest in Allison lately, though. Stiles often got worried texts from Scott about Allison finding Isaac better than him because he was adorable and _tall_. Which Stiles found hilarious, because it implied Scott wasn’t adorable or tall himself. 

Well, maybe not tall, Isaac was a giant, but they both had the adorableness down. 

Stiles hadn’t really had the chance to hang out alone with Allison basically since her arrival, and given Scott was doing finals and Isaac was at work, he’d figured now was a good time to try and catch up, make sure she was doing okay. Derek allowed it only if the meeting took place in the diner, since Boyd could keep an eye on him, and if he got to drive Stiles there and pick him up after. 

It was actually more than Stiles was expecting, he’d anticipated a flat-out ‘no’ so he was kind of thrilled Derek was letting him hang out with her alone. Allison was a nice person, and they had a lot to talk about, even though it would be uncomfortable and awkward. 

“I’m glad you and your dad are settling in well. He still working?” 

“Mm,” Allison agreed, nodding while sipping at her coffee, and licking her lips before setting it back down. “Just got a new contract, so he’s been out of the house a fair bit lately. I’m just glad he has something to do, he seems really happy. And I’m going back to school in the fall, so that should be great. Took a bit to get my transcript over since I basically dropped out when we left Kentucky, but the uni just out of town actually accepted my request to transfer.” 

“That’s really great,” Stiles said honestly. He was glad her departure from her home hadn’t royally fucked her education. “I’m thinking of enrolling maybe next year. Still want to get some of my magic down before then.” 

“How’s that going?” she asked curiously.

“Good,” Stiles admitted, glancing down at his cuff-free wrists and smiling. “Really good. I’ve been trying to use it more often lately, get a bit more of a feel for it, you know?”

“That’s really amazing,” she said with a smile. “You’ve always been impressive, managing to learn all that magic basically by yourself.”

“I had help,” he insisted. 

“Maybe, but not from people who knew exactly what you were and could honestly give you all the support you needed.” 

Stiles stopped picking at his eggs, pressing his lips together and eying Allison. She was still smiling kindly at him, but he could tell based on her expression that she knew what was coming. It made sense, after all. Stiles just wanted to know why. He was grateful, and so glad that Allison and Chris weren’t like the other Argents, but he just... didn’t get it. 

“I know we don’t talk about it,” he said quietly, Allison’s smile slowly fading. She put her cutlery down, like she was going to need all of her strength to get through this conversation, and even holding that was too much for her. “I know that it was a thing that happened, and we pretend it didn’t. But I just—why? Why did you do it? Why are you and your dad different from the others?” 

Allison let out a small sigh, pushing her plate away slightly and staring down into it, like she didn’t want to look at Stiles. “My dad grew up in this life. He never wanted to, he didn’t like what it did to people, but he was an Argent, and it’s what we did. The family business.” She said the words with a bitter laugh, like it was ridiculous to think of murder as a family business. 

To be fair, it was. 

“He did what he had to do growing up, because that was just the life of an Argent. When he met my mom, he thought he might have an out, since she didn’t come from a Hunter family. After they got married though, my grandfather started talking to her about the family business, and she was on board with it. It was kind of messed up in a way, my dad kind of describes it as being pulled into a cult. She’d never shown any kind of dislike towards the Supernatural before, but after a few meetings with my grandfather, she was hooked on the family motto.” She brought her hands up to put quotations around said motto. “‘We hunt those who hunt us.’ She was all in, so my dad didn’t have a choice, and he stayed.” 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, because he could imagine what it was like being held prisoner by his own family. After all, he’d grown up like that too, he just hadn’t realized it was for his safety at the time. 

“Things kind of changed after I was born. Mom wanted out, she didn’t want me to go through this life. I don’t remember her much, I was pretty young when she died.” She scoffed, like the words were comical. “I say ‘died’ like it was an accident.” She pressed her lips together, looking up at Stiles. “She got bitten by an Alpha. She was starting to turn. So my grandfather made her kill herself. All part of the agreement when you join the Argent cult.” 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said again, knowing the words were wholly inadequate. “Losing a parent isn’t easy.” 

“No, it’s not. A lot of people here seem to know what that’s like.” Her expression softened. “You included.” 

Stiles shrugged, not wanting to talk about his father. It still felt so raw and fresh, even though it had been almost two years ago by now.

Jesus, it had literally been almost two years ago, his anniversary of the day he’d met Derek and his father had died was coming up soon. 

“Anyway, after mom died, dad was kind of in a tough position. He didn’t have the means to raise me on his own, but he didn’t want me to stay in that life. He figured he’d wait until I was older and we’d figure something out. Only when I got older, I joined the family business. My grandfather always made it sound like an honour, like something to be proud of. I liked it, at first. Taking down monsters, saving people. It made me feel good, made me feel powerful. Like I was making a difference.” She pushed her plate further away from herself, like she’d lost her appetite. “It wasn’t until I was asked to kill someone who didn’t deserve it that I realized dad was right. We weren’t good people protecting others, we were murderers. That one event wasn’t really good for my psyche. I lost myself a bit, had a bit of a meltdown, and wouldn’t come out of my room.” 

“I’m really sorry.” Stiles felt like he just kept repeating the words, but he didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t imagine what Allison had gone through, he could only vaguely compare it to what he’d been forced to do while with the Argents. And he’d only been there for five months, not nineteen years. 

“I got over it.” She shrugged, like it was no big deal, but the distance between herself and her plate suggested otherwise. “Dad helped me cope with it and we started talking about leaving. Making a break for it and starting over somewhere else. He told me we’d wait until the end of summer and then go. That was last year.” 

Stiles frowned, not sure he understood, and then it clicked. “I was caught last July.” 

She nodded, picking up her fork and pushing some hashbrowns through the ketchup on her plate, but making no move to eat it. 

“Dad was told he was going on a really important mission. He wasn’t told what, just that he had to be there. When he came back, he took me aside, and he looked terrified. Because grandpa had you. The Spark. And he knew that if he kept you, if he managed to break you, the world would be in trouble. He asked me to wait, asked me to be strong, and I promised I would be. So we did what we could, we planned as much as possible to try and help you not only escape, but help others even while you were still there.” She offered him a small smile. “What, did you think Blake just didn’t notice you when you snuck out? He was on camera duty. Too bad he was really sick that day and accidentally took some night-time medicine that made him drowsy.” 

Stiles couldn’t help the startled laugh that escaped him. “You knocked him out so I could escape.” 

“Dad did,” she insisted. “I left the crossbow by the door. We planned your escape for weeks before executing it. Dad was the one who tipped off your friends that someone was watching them. We knew you wouldn’t leave until Derek was safe, so we pushed them along. Once Jeff was out of the picture, and grandpa complained about how powerful you were getting, we knew it was only a matter of time. We just had to lay the foundation for your escape, and let the rest fall into place. And it did.” 

She pulled her coffee over and took a few swallows, but made no move to go back to her plate. 

“You stayed a while longer, though,” Stiles said. “Why? Why didn’t you just run with me?” 

“Dad wanted to stay behind for a bit to make sure if you were caught again that we could continue to help you. After you were home and safe, we started making plans to leave, but slowly. We didn’t want to get found out. When the time was right, dad took all the money he could, packed us up and we left. Pretty sure nobody saw that coming. Dad was never the favourite, but he was always obedient, so I’d imagine it was a bit of a shock when they woke up to find us gone. Guess grandpa knows how you escaped now, though.” 

“I can’t thank you enough for everything you did,” Stiles said quietly. “You really saved me. You saved a lot of people.”

“No I didn’t,” Allison said, her face twisting into something painful. “I thought I was a good person, but I wasn’t. Helping you was my way of trying to right all the wrongs I’d already done. I’m still learning to be a good person, but it gets easier every day. It’s far easier being kind and honest than it is being cruel and deceitful.” She smiled a little. “Who’d have thought, huh?” 

“Who’d have thought?” Stiles agreed with a laugh. “Though I have to ask, why did you come here? It’s not that I’m not happy to have you here, I just—didn’t expect it. You looked positive we were going to turn you away when you showed up, so why even come?” 

“You were kind,” Allison said softly. “Even when you were being held captive. Even when you were forced to do things you didn’t want to do. Even when you were suffering. You were always kind. We wanted to be wherever you were, for as long as you’d let us. But you were with the Hales, and our family has murdered a majority of them, so we knew it wouldn’t happen. We were positive they’d turn us away, even if you asked them not to. I was just making sure I didn’t get my hopes up.” 

“You never even said anything. About how you helped me escape.” 

“Our helping you escape didn’t make it right that you were taken to begin with. We can’t expect mercy for helping you when so many Hales died at the hands of Argents.” She shrugged again, like she didn’t really know how to explain it. “I guess we just figured they didn’t owe us anything. If they were going to turn us away, they had every right to.”

“Well, I’m glad they didn’t. I’m glad Derek looked at you and decided you were both worth keeping around.” 

She smiled. “Me too. I think I’d have missed out on some pretty amazing people.” 

“Yeah, tell me about it. Scott won’t shut up about you.” 

She laughed and kicked him under the table, Stiles pretending to imitate Scott in a high voice and Allison struggling not to bother everyone in the diner with her hyena impression. They stuck around for a while longer, Stiles a little pleased when Allison got enough of her appetite back to eat the rest of her plate. 

It was hard, being who they were. Growing up how they had. It wasn’t fair, honestly. They were children, being forced into roles that they didn’t even want. That they hadn’t even known about originally.

He was glad he’d met Allison. Glad she and her father had come to Beacon Hills. Glad Derek had let them stay. 

He was really, really glad the world seemed to be improving, if even a little bit. Because if someone who grew up with Kate and Gerard Argent could still look at the world and insist there was a problem with it, then there was hope for everyone. 

Chris Argent had gotten out, and Stiles was going to do everything he could to make that difficult decision worth it. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- There are some more mentions of rape, and what Kate did to Derek, and how that affected him. 
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Brooklyn-nine-nine (c) Michael Schur  
> \- X-Men (c) Marvel  
> \- Star Wars (c) George Lucas  
> \- Superman (c) DC


	20. Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, there's a reason the chapters are being posted later, sorry about the delay but it's unavoidable.  
> (haha, unintentional Void pun)

Stiles was getting better at the whole ‘waiting in the car for hours while his friends put themselves in danger’ thing. Honestly, he knew it was because things had been going really well so far, and they’d succeeded in all their raids, but he knew their luck was going to run out eventually. 

He thought that every time though, and it kept holding, so maybe they were doing such amazing work that the universe was rewarding them for a deed well done. Really, Jackson and Alex had suffered enough, they didn’t deserve any more hardship. Stiles was eager to get this over with and go home. 

Having him tag along had already been a huge ordeal in and of itself. Peter and Chris had flown ahead to stake the place out for a few days, and Alex and Jackson were driving the van up so that Peter wasn’t paying out the ass for transportation back. Not to mention none of them would have any identification to _fly_. 

Derek and Stiles had been told to stay behind, because Peter didn’t like the idea of Stiles outside California. They would be a long way from home and safety, and he clearly felt a great deal of anxiety having him in the open, considering Gerard was still out there somewhere. 

Probably still in his mansion in Kentucky, but Stiles wasn’t about to go and check. 

It had taken a lot of arguing for him to be allowed to come, but he was _not_ letting Jackson and Alex go in there without solid backup. Sure, Chris was a Hunter and Peter was a Werewolf, but they were only two people. If shit really hit the fan, Stiles knew he’d be able to do _something_ , at least. He may not have been all in power-wise, but he was still pretty damn good, in his opinion.

Still, now that they were there, all he wanted to do was hurry up and leave. Go home. Back to the loft. It wasn’t like it was a huge hardship being away, but the hotel rooms they had felt... unsafe. It wasn’t like the cabin in Wyoming, which was off the beaten path and unknown to anyone who was aware that Stiles was there. It wasn’t like Satomi’s guest house. It definitely wasn’t like the loft. 

It felt so open and dangerous. It was probably why Jackson and Peter were the two other people in the room with him and Derek, Alex and Chris sharing the other. Jackson actually slept in the same bed as Derek and Stiles. It wasn’t hard, they slept curled around each other, so there was plenty of room for Jackson at Stiles’ back. Peter was in the other bed, and Stiles was pretty sure he slept the least out of all of them. 

Everyone was on edge being away from home, but hopefully it wouldn’t be for much longer. Once Alex and Jackson got this over with, they could leave. They still had time yet though, they’d only _just_ gotten there about ten minutes ago. There was a long wait ahead of them. 

Derek was leaning back in his seat, one hand tapping the steering wheel along to the song playing softly over the radio. He kept looking out his side window sharply, like he saw something, but he never reacted to anything and faced forward again a few seconds later so Stiles didn’t worry about it. He’d only give himself anxiety if he did. 

He was attempting to read a rare book Peter had managed to get from a contact in Alaska about Shaman magic. It was written in old English, so it was _extremely_ complicated, and the light wasn’t great which didn’t help, but so far it was kind of interesting. Stiles hadn’t read any Shaman books from the Vault, he hadn’t even known they were a thing. 

Their magic seemed a little all over the place though, he wasn’t really sure what to make of it. He wasn’t going to complain though, because the more magics he could read about, the better it would be for him. He wanted to get up to his mother’s level sooner rather than later, and so far, it was _later_ and he hated that. 

Derek sneezed beside him, Stiles’ lips curling upwards at the corners because of how cute it sounded, and he was just about to comment on it when something in the pit of his stomach dropped and he felt an uncomfortable _snap_ in the back of his head. 

Stiles froze at the sensation, remaining perfectly still while he very quickly did his mental checks on Alex and Jackson. He always placed protective spells and tracking spells on the two of them, just in case. If they ended up losing them by accident because of a miscalculation, he wanted to know he would be able to find them again. The tracking spells were both in place, nothing unusual there. 

He went through all the different protective spells he’d placed on them both, one by one. He started with Jackson, because it was _Jackson_ and he would always come first, second only to Derek. Stiles got through two spells before his hands clenched around the book and he turned to Derek. 

“Start the car. Start the car now.” 

Derek turned to him, startled, but immediately obeyed, starting the car and pulling away from the curb as Stiles got his phone out and dialled Peter. 

_“What is it?”_

“Something happened to Jackson.” Stiles hated that he didn’t know _what_ had happened, but it was _something_. Because one of the protective spells had snapped on him, and that was only possible if someone had ripped clean through it. All of Alex’s seemed to still be in place, which was a relief, but Stiles couldn’t help feeling panic rising in his chest. 

Why did it have to be _Jackson_? Not that he _wanted_ it to be Alex either, but... fuck, _why_ Jackson?! 

And he didn’t even know how worried he was supposed to be yet. The spell that had snapped was a fairly generic, all-encompassing protective bubble. He’d started casting that one when one of the last raids they’d done had been with a violently abusive Collector who’d given Alex a black eye. Rose had been particularly distressed, given Alex didn’t heal _quite_ as fast as the wolves did. 

The spell was supposed to protect the person it was cast on from harm, but ‘harm’ was a pretty broad term. It could mean anything from a slap to the face to a bullet to the brain. And the fact that it had _snapped_ meant there was someone in that house who knew magic. Given the way the spell had been countered, Stiles was willing to bet it was a Warlock. 

He tensed when a hand fell onto his thigh, squeezing hard, and turned to look at Derek. The Werewolf was keeping his eyes on the road, but his face was set and his lips were in a hard line. He was clearly just as worried as Stiles, but he was trying to keep him calm because bad things happened when Stiles panicked. 

Well, the people in the house better hope they didn’t make him _panic_ too much, or there was going to be a _huge_ problem! 

He didn’t know if he could go Void over Jackson, but he wasn’t exactly interested in finding out.

When they reached the bottom of the drive, Peter’s van was ahead of them, and Stiles had to blast the gate open so they could get through it to the house. There were guards patrolling, but Chris made quick work of most of them with tranquillisers while leaning out his window, and the stragglers were dealt with by Stiles. He wasn’t really focussing too much on which abilities he was using, he just kept throwing his hands out and hoping for the best. 

Sometimes a blast of energy exploded outwards, sending people flying back into trees and various stone statues—he made sure to keep the power output low, because he wasn’t interested in killing anyone. When it wasn’t a blast of energy, it was electricity—or lightning, he still wasn’t sure which it was—and those people went down _hard_ and didn’t get back up. He had to regulate the power output on _that_ too, which was hard as fuck to do when he was freaking out. 

The van slammed to a sudden halt at the door, Derek almost crashing the Mustang into it, but managing to stop just in time to avoid a collision. Peter and Chris were out of the van instantly, the former wolfed out and furious and the latter holding a rifle with two more strapped to his back. 

Derek climbed out beside him and Stiles followed, even though he knew nobody would be happy he wasn’t safely tucked away in the car.

But really, the car wasn’t safe anymore either, they were in enemy territory and they were short on time to get everyone out.

This wasn’t something they hadn’t planned for, it was just something they’d always hoped they wouldn’t need. Stiles _hated_ that they’d finally needed it. If the people in the house managed to get organized fast enough, they would be in trouble. They were severely outnumbered.

“Peter!” Stiles threw one hand out just as Peter ducked what would’ve been a bullet to the brain. Thankfully the shield went up in time, because even having lowered himself, it still would’ve caught Peter in the head. 

Stiles kept the shield up as the guard at the door fired shot after shot at him, every single one bouncing off the invisible wall. Chris was using the cover to take out people coming around the side of the house, and Derek roared somewhere behind him, likely busy with someone else. 

When the guard shooting at Peter ran out of bullets, the Werewolf was just about to charge at him when the guy jerked and then fell forward, hitting the ground face-first, paralysed. 

A very, _very_ pissed off Jackson was standing behind him, chest bare and streaked with blood, more than half of his body covered in scales, and his claws out and dripping red from having used his paralysing Kanima venom. 

“Jackson!” Stiles rushed the door, Peter having moved in first and evidently intent on clearing as much of the first floor as he could as quickly as possible. 

Stiles was inside and in front of Jackson in a second, the Kanima breathing hard and both eyes bright yellow and slitted. They were wide and unseeing, and Stiles had literally never seen him like this before. 

“Jackson, are you okay?” He grabbed his face in both hands, giving it a small shake. “Are you all right? Hey!” He slapped one of his cheeks, hard. “Focus. Jackson, what happened?” 

Stiles almost leapt right out of his skin when a door quite literally flew across the large foyer, and a gorilla that was twice the size of a normal primate exploded out of what was probably the basement. Alex was breathing hard, looking furious, and she turned towards Stiles and Jackson. The second she saw them, she seemed to relax, but she didn’t let the sight of them stop her from wreaking havoc. 

Turning away from the front of the house, she moved into the back of it, probably following after Peter. There was a swarm of bees right on her ass, and Stiles was _way_ too panicked to focus on that right now. 

“I think we broke our fastest raid record.” 

His eyes shot back to Jackson when he said this, and the smile on his face was vicious and bloody and not at all okay. Fuck.

“Jackson, what the fuck happened? Are you okay? Is any of this yours?” He couldn’t tell if the blood on Jackson’s torso was his or someone else’s. Werewolves healed, and while Jackson was only part-Werewolf, he was _still_ a Werewolf. 

“What’s going on?” a guy asked, Stiles not even having noticed him approach. He looked young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and terrified. There were eight other people behind him, and Stiles figured these were the rares being held by this particular Collector. 

The higher up the chain they went, the more people they seemed to find. 

“Get in the van,” Stiles ordered, grabbing Jackson’s hand and turning towards the exit. “Everyone in the van, now!” 

“Who _are_ you?!” One of them asked, but he was glad when they followed anyway. Jackson’s hand was slick in his from the blood, but he didn’t let go, and allowed Stiles to drag him out of the house. 

Derek was still outside, in his Beta shift and snarling while he scanned the area. There didn’t seem to be anyone else left outside, but Stiles was sure there were _plenty_ inside. He really hoped Alex had just gone to get Peter and Chris and they’d get the fuck out of here. 

“Everybody in, come on, move!” Stiles ordered, getting the door open and motioning for them to hurry. 

It seemed to be clear to these people that they were trying to help, because nobody questioned him and they all piled quickly into the back of the van. It was going to be tight, but even as he thought that, one of them turned into mist literally right in his face and another one shrank to the size of a fucking mouse. So that was good space-wise. 

Derek let out a loud howl behind him and Stiles whipped around, heart in his throat and worried someone had attacked him. He realized only when he saw Derek standing by the front of the Mustang that he’d been calling to the others. 

They needed to get away quickly, which meant he and Derek would have to split up. It was clear Derek had figured this out too, because he hurried around the back of the van to the driver’s door and climbed behind the wheel. It was still running since nobody had stopped to close doors or turn off their engines. 

He looked at Stiles, and jerked his head back at the Mustang. 

“Jackson, get in the Mustang. Go!” Stiles ordered, shoving at him. He managed to get him to move, pushing him down into the passenger seat and buckling him in before slamming the door. He opened the back door behind him, then raced around the car to open the other one before getting behind the wheel and slamming his door, buckling himself in and shifting the car into reverse. 

Chris was the first one out and he made a break for the van, flying into the passenger seat and slamming his door. Peter, Alex, and the swarm of bees were only five seconds behind him. They raced for the open doors of the Mustang, Alex turning human again while she did so, and the car rocked as two people fell into it. 

“Go, go!” Peter shouted as he slammed his door. Alex left it open only long enough for the swarm to finish making it inside, and then shut hers too, even as Stiles hit the gas and shot backwards before she’d done so. 

They flew back out through the blown open gates, Stiles braking and cranking the wheel while shifting back into drive. Derek almost backed the van right into the side of the Mustang, but they were _just_ fast enough to avoid each other. Their positions put the van in front and Derek hit the gas, shooting down the street even as Stiles heard gunfire and shouting from the house. 

He didn’t stop to look, he just slammed down on the gas hard enough to break the damn pedal and shot forward after the van. His heart was pounding in his throat, his breaths were short and ragged, and there were dots dancing in front of his eyes. 

That had been bad. That had been so bad. Shit. _Shit_! What if they were coming after them?! 

Stiles glanced in the rear-view mirror, and his heart stuttered in his chest when he saw a group of black SUVs screaming down the road behind them. Before he could raise the alarm, he frowned when they turned into the drive they’d just shot out of, not a single one coming down the road after them. 

He didn’t have time to dwell on them, so he shook the feeling of weirdness off and turned to look at Jackson. He was breathing extremely evenly, and was staring down at his bloody hands. 

“Alex,” Peter said from behind Stiles, sounding stressed. He heard fabric shifting and realized Peter had evidently given her his coat, seeing as she was literally naked. It was a good thing most Supernaturals didn’t have any shame, or this whole thing would be awkward.

Not that he was focussing on Alex right now, given his friend’s worrying behaviour beside him.

“Jackson,” Stiles said, eyes flicking back and forth between the road and his friend. “Jackson, talk to me. What happened?” 

“Did he—?”

“No,” Jackson said, cutting Alex off so harshly that it was more of a growl than a word. “I didn’t give him the chance.” 

“Can someone explain to me what the hell happened?” Peter demanded, flapping one hand impatiently as the bees flew every which way. “Alex, _please_ get your new friend under control!” 

“She’s a little stressed out at the moment,” Alex snapped back. “I would imagine you can understand why she’s agitated!”

“Can we _please_ ,” Stiles shouted, “ _focus_! Jackson! Are you okay?” 

It seemed to take an exceptionally long time for him to answer, but finally, _mercifully_ , he clenched his hands into fists and looked at Stiles. “Yeah. I’m okay.” 

“Thank you.” Stiles rubbed at his face with one hand, the other trembling slightly on the steering wheel. Stiles almost overshot the van when Derek turned abruptly at the last second, but he managed to keep up relatively well. “Alex?” 

“I’m all right,” she confirmed. 

“What the hell happened?” Stiles asked. “One of your spells snapped.” 

When Jackson didn’t answer, Alex said, very quietly, “After we were brought downstairs by the guards, the Collector came to see his new possessions. He had them put me in a cell. He asked for Jackson to be sedated and brought to his room.” 

Derek was going to kill him, because Stiles almost blew up the steering wheel when sparks exploded out of his hands. 

“Jesus shit!” he shouted, Peter’s hand clutching at one of Stiles’ shoulders and digging claws into his skin, like he was trying to keep him grounded. “Fuck!” 

Yeah, this was going to be a problem. There were now two missing pieces of the steering wheel. Derek was going to be pissed, but it was still driveable.

Mostly. 

“Jackson, are you _sure_ you’re all right?” Peter asked once Stiles got the car back under control. Sparks were still dancing beneath his skin, large stripes of electricity shooting up and down his arms, but he tried really hard to calm down. 

Jackson had said no to Alex’s attempted question. He’d said _no_. Which meant at worst, they’d gotten him into the bedroom. And his shirt off, since it was mysteriously absent. But his pants were still on. They were even still done up, Stiles could see that they were still done up. 

It took another few seconds for Jackson to respond, but he just nodded slowly, then said, “I don’t remember how I got to the entrance.” 

“What?” Stiles asked. 

“I was in the bedroom. And I don’t remember anything until you slapped me in the face.” He was still staring down at his bloody hands. “I have no idea what I did.” 

“Hopefully a lot of damage,” Alex said viciously. 

Stiles knew that wasn’t what he meant. 

“You didn’t kill anyone.” 

Jackson glanced over at him, and Stiles knew that was his fear. Harris was different. Harris had kept him locked up for eight years of his life. If he hadn’t done something, he never would’ve found closure. But Jackson wasn’t a murderer any more than Stiles was, and the fact that he couldn’t remember what he’d done was very clearly concerning him. 

“If you didn’t kill the guy at the door shooting at Peter, you didn’t kill the guys upstairs,” Stiles said. He reached out one hand and placed it over Jackson’s closest bloodied one, squeezing hard. Jackson brought his other hand up and over, sandwiching Stiles’ between his and holding on tightly. “I’ve got you,” he promised. 

Jackson nodded again, eyes still staring down at his hands, curled around Stiles’. “You came.” 

“Always.” 

There was a brief pause, then Jackson said, voice very quiet, “You came again.”

Stiles turned to glance at him, and realized that he hadn’t actually considered the fact that this was the second time Stiles had shown up to get him out of a Collector’s house. Sure, this was their contingency plan, and there was no way Jackson and Alex would be left behind _ever_ , but he hadn’t really thought about how terrified Jackson must’ve been at the thought that he was alone at another Collector’s mercy. 

Seeing Stiles come for him just as he had a year ago had probably been the reason he’d snapped out of his trance moreso than the slap to his face. 

Stiles tightened his grip on Jackson’s hand. 

“Always,” he said again, pressing down harder on the gas. 

They needed to get home. Jackson needed to go _home_. 

Stiles was going to make sure he got him there. 

* * *

Sometimes, Stiles forgot how many people they’d saved. He didn’t like saying ‘we’ in the sense that it involved him, since he hadn’t _really_ done much more than be a backup, but every time he talked about it with the others, they always said, “We did good.” 

‘We’ plural, including him. 

He supposed as a whole, they’d all contributed in some fashion, but still, Stiles didn’t like taking credit for something he hadn’t actually done. But either way, he often forgot how many people had been saved in general because he didn’t really venture out of the loft, and even when he did, it was to the usual haunts. 

Today was different, because he and Derek had actually driven to the motel in town that was housing a large majority of the Supernaturals who’d been saved. They didn’t all stay, sometimes they came back with the pack and called friends or family to come and get them, but most of them were like Jackson and Mason and had nowhere else to go. 

Most people who were sold to Collectors seemed to have been sold by someone they thought they could trust, like family and friends. It made a lot of people anxious whenever the ones calling for loved ones left because no one truly knew if they’d be okay. But they weren’t prisoners, so it wasn’t like they could force them to stay. Stiles hoped they were all okay when they left the safety of Beacon Hills, but they didn’t have any guarantees. 

Walking through the corridor of the second floor, most of the doors were open and it felt like what he imagined a dorm would look like as opposed to a motel. He’d never lived in a dorm himself, but he’d seen enough movies to determine that this motel was like one big group of friends. 

Not all of them were rares, but everyone there was present for a reason, and it seemed to make them all happy to be around each other. They felt safe knowing they were with their own kind, and a lot of them really valued the protection of the Alpha and his Spark. 

“Hey Stiles.” One of the girls from the second raid was leaning against her doorjamb, biting her bottom lip and playing with her hair. “Never seen you here before.” 

“Just needed to stop in and have a chat with someone,” he said with a kind smile while passing her. 

When he was two doors down, Derek right on his heels, he heard someone whisper loudly, “Give it _up_ with him, he’s with the Alpha.” 

“For now,” the girl sing-songed. 

Stiles turned to cock an eyebrow at Derek, who was scowling and almost looked like he had the beginnings of a pout on his lips. It was adorable and Stiles just laughed before patting lightly at his chest while he faced forward and kept walking. 

There was one door closed at the end of the long corridor, the occupants uninterested in making friendly with the group outside. Stiles knew that there were a few closed doors on various floors. Some people didn’t trust others, not even their own kind. 

Stopping in front of the door, he turned to look at Derek, who leaned back against the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets, watching Stiles. He’d promised he wouldn’t interfere, but no way was he letting Stiles come alone. Which was hilarious, because Stiles was pretty sure half the building would riot if something happened to him. He could literally trip and probably have eight different people helping him up. 

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, mostly to himself, and then reached up to knock on the door. 

There was silence from inside, but he wasn’t surprised given Werewolves and all. He jumped when the door opened, and based on the absence of a rude comment when the twin leaned against the door he was propping open, Stiles figured it had to be Ethan.

Aiden always had something rude to say. 

“Hey,” he said uncertainly, suddenly thinking maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea, but he honestly had nowhere else to go. “I know we haven’t... I know we’re not exactly friends or anything, but I was hoping we could talk. About Jackson.” 

There was a short pause, during which he was heavily scrutinized, then the Werewolf in front of him moved aside and motioned him in.

“Thanks.” Stiles glanced once at Derek to make sure he wasn’t going to have an aneurism, then walked into the room. It was actually a lot nicer than Stiles was anticipating, with a small kitchenette area, a bathroom, and two queen beds. Various plastic bags of clothes and food were divided along certain areas of the room and Stiles had to wonder how much it sucked living in a motel like this for so long. 

Not that the twins had been there for an exceptionally long time or anything, but long enough. They’d been rescued back in January and it was now the tail-end of May, so about four-ish months. Still, Stiles wouldn’t have been particularly happy bunking down in a motel. They really needed to get some more bodies working on those houses, though it wasn’t like Peter was particularly eager to have unknowns so close to his home. 

When Stiles turned to continue their conversation, he frowned when the other man stalked to the bathroom door and banged one fist on it. 

“Hey, the Alpha’s bitch is here for you.” 

Oh. Apparently Aiden had stopped being snarky _at_ him. All right then. 

Stiles waited, Aiden moving to one of the beds and falling onto it. He grabbed at a magazine that had been laid out on the crumpled covers and started reading it, completely ignoring Stiles’ entire existence. He didn’t mind, Aiden was prickly at the best of times, and he was more than happy to escape this room unscathed. 

It took another minute before Ethan exited the bathroom. It looked like he’d just finished a shower, Stiles had probably knocked while he was drying off. His hair was still damp, but his clothes were fresh and he gave Stiles the same appraising look his brother had at the door. 

“Hi,” Stiles said, feeling uncertain all over again. 

“You’re not usually so far from home,” Ethan commented, stopping a few feet in front of Stiles and crossing his arms. “What are you doing here?” 

Either Ethan hadn’t heard what he’d said at the door, or he was pretending to give Stiles the chance to back out of this conversation. 

He wouldn’t. 

“I know we haven’t really spoken much since you guys moved here,” he said, eyes skirting to Aiden to include him in that. He was ignoring him completely so Stiles decided to keep his focus on Ethan. “I know that’s mostly my fault. I’m sorry.” 

Ethan shrugged indifferently, like it didn’t matter to him either way. Aiden said nothing, but Stiles knew he was listening. Somehow, he felt like Aiden was curious about what Stiles was going to say to his brother about Jackson.

Probably not at all what he was thinking. Maybe he thought Stiles had been sent to break up with Ethan, which was laughable, because no way would Stiles do something that horrible to someone. If Jackson wanted to break up with his boyfriend, he could damn well do it himself. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” Stiles said. “About Jackson.” 

“What about him?” Ethan’s tone was indifferent, but his frame tensed at the words. 

“I care about him,” Stiles said. “He’s my friend. _Our_ friend.” He motioned vaguely at the door, where Derek had been left in the corridor. “But he’s not okay and he won’t let us help him. He needs someone to talk to, but he doesn’t like feeling weak, so instead of talking things out with me, he just get hostile and storms away.”

“And you think I’d have better luck because?” Ethan asked, though Stiles could tell that he was concerned. Jackson hadn’t really been leaving the Hale house much since their last somewhat disastrous raid, and even though Stiles assured him nobody had died, he was _positive_ nobody had died, Jackson seemed out of sorts. 

It was probably both the potential murders as well as the event that had led to him losing control. Jackson had always been coveted. Something pretty for people to fawn all over. Stiles figured this was the first time anyone had legitimately tried to take something from him that he wasn’t willing to give. 

Even if Jackson _had_ killed that Collector, he wouldn’t have blamed him. 

“Jackson is different with you,” Stiles insisted quietly. “He lets you see him at his most vulnerable. I know he was affected by what happened, and I know he needs to talk to someone. If it’s not me, or Derek, I guess... You’re dating him. I was just hoping you’d give it a shot.”

Ethan said nothing, still standing in front of him with his arms crossed, eying Stiles like he was a puzzle he was trying to solve. 

“I’m not trying to pressure you or anything,” Stiles clarified. “I just thought maybe you’d have better luck with him. You know what he’s like, and I just want him to be okay.” 

“Nobody can be okay after what we’ve all been through,” Ethan said matter of factly. 

He wasn’t wrong, but Stiles wasn’t going to tell him that, because he liked to think he _would_ be okay one day.

Sure, he had a long way to go, and so did Jackson, but Stiles really hoped he could truly be okay one day. That would be pretty great. 

Instead, he said, “Being around people who care about you helps. I wake up every morning with the weight of the past pressing down on me. But I have Derek beside me, and Jackson showing up, and the pack inviting me out and spending time with me. It doesn’t fully go away, but it get _easier_ every day. Jackson just needs someone he can talk to. I don’t care who it is, as long as he can be a little more okay today than he was yesterday.” 

Ethan said nothing for another few seconds, then slowly nodded his head once. “I’ll try and talk to him.” 

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Stiles wiped his hands on his jeans, looking at Aiden, then back at his twin brother. “Anyway, I don’t want to make you feel like I’m all up in your territory, so I’ll head out. But thank you for listening to me, and if you can help us with Jackson, I’d really appreciate it.” 

Ethan just nodded again. Stiles nodded back, feeling awkward, then motioned the door with both pointer fingers before heading for it. He’d just placed his hand on the knob and started to turn when Ethan spoke again. 

“You’re wrong, by the way.”

Stiles turned, frowning at him. “Wrong?” 

“You said you think I can help him because he lets me see him at his most vulnerable, but that isn’t true.” Stiles frowned at those words, but Ethan just shrugged one shoulder, like it was obvious to him why Jackson always pulled back when something particularly emotional happened. He never let Stiles help him, and he had no idea _why_. 

Apparently Ethan did. 

“He’d let you see that side of him too. He just doesn’t show it to you because he wants to protect you.”

That... was unexpected. “Protect me? From what?” 

“Your life is hard enough.” Ethan shrugged, letting his arms uncross and dropping them to his sides so he could shove them into his pockets instead. “You’ve been through a lot. He doesn’t want to add his emotional garbage to your pile.” 

It occurred to Stiles that Jackson probably hadn’t ever had someone like a real friend in his life before. Given how he’d grown up, the friends he had were likely just out of necessity, or isolation. He and the others at Harris’ had all been friends, but the second they were freed, they’d all bolted and gone their separate ways. 

Ben, Claire, and even Alex had just run like hell without once looking back to see if Jackson was following. Sure he’d run off on them first, but he’d come back, and that made a huge difference. While it was clear Stiles was a good guy, none of them had really given any thought to what Stiles’ plans might _be_. 

Maybe he’d specifically broken in _for_ Jackson, they didn’t know. Maybe he was a Collector himself who was pretending to be a good person to gain their favour, and had taken Jackson back to his own mansion to be fawned over. 

When Jackson had been in trouble in the mansion last week, Stiles hadn’t thought about the risks to his own person. He hadn’t thought about what would happen if he went and everything took a turn for the worst. His friend needed him, and he’d shown up. 

Even in the car while they’d been driving away, Jackson had mentioned multiple times that Stiles had come back for him. That he hadn’t just shrugged, said, “Oh well!” and gone home. He knew that Stiles was his friend, but it was entirely possible he hadn’t actually understood what true friendship _was_ until it was reflected back at him. 

Jackson had once said he knew Stiles. That he knew who he was, because he’d come in to save him and the others, and he’d stopped to help Jackson down from the tree when he’d been in that horrific accident. Jackson always spoke about things Stiles did for him, but it was almost like he hadn’t ever fully understood what a friend was until that day. 

A friend wasn’t someone who came back. It was someone who _kept_ coming back. Over and over and over again. Someone who cared, and honestly, truly wanted what was best for this person who meant something to them. 

Jackson didn’t know how to let Stiles in, because he was afraid letting him in meant burdening him to a degree where Stiles wouldn’t want him around anymore. But friendship was a two-way street, and Jackson had done a lot for Stiles. He would return the favour, if only he could. 

If only Jackson would _let_ him. 

“If your talk goes well,” Stiles said, “please tell him that his garbage is welcome any time. Because he’s my friend, and I can carve out enough space in my pile for my friend.” 

Ethan’s lips twitched, like he was going to smile, and Stiles heard Aiden let out a small scoff, like this entire conversation was ridiculous. Ethan didn’t seem to think so, if his expression was anything to go by. 

“You know, if I can get him to a place where he’s okay again, I think it’d be really nice to spend some time with you,” Ethan admitted. “You and Derek.” 

“That’d be cool,” Stiles agreed. “Whenever you want, just let me know.” He raised his free hand once in a small wave and then opened the door, stepping back out into the corridor and shutting it behind himself. 

Derek was still right where he’d left him, eyebrows raised in inquiry. 

“Like you weren’t listening,” Stiles insisted, shoving him lightly on his way past him. “Come on, let’s go home.” 

Derek fell into step beside him easily, reaching out to wrap one arm around his shoulders and pulling him into his side, kissing his temple while they walked down the loud, crowded corridor. 

Stiles knew Jackson would be okay, in time. They would all be okay in time, but what mattered most was the people who stuck by them during their times of need. 

He wanted to be that for Jackson, but he knew that as long as Jackson had _someone_ to lean on, he’d be okay. So he was fine with Jackson leaning on Ethan, so long as he knew that he could always, _always_ lean on Stiles. 

Stiles sighed while wrapping his arm around Derek’s waist, pressing into him even more, and they exited the building a few moments later, Stiles feeling a little more hopeful than he had when he’d entered it. 

* * *

“Happy anniversary!” 

Derek raised both hands in defence on instinct the second he saw Stiles heading his way with a pie in his hands. 

“What? It’s not like I was going to shove it in your face,” Stiles insisted, a little offended. 

The look he got in response, with both of Derek’s eyebrows raised, suggested, “Oh, what, you mean like _last_ year?” 

Stiles thought about it while stopping in front of Derek on the couch and then grinned. “Oh yeah. I _did_ shove your treat in your face last year. Well, this is a hot pie from the oven, and I don’t feel like burning your face off. It’s a nice face.” 

Derek didn’t look impressed but Stiles just laughed and fell down beside him, offering him the pie plate. It had cooled enough that Stiles could comfortably hold it, but was still definitely warm enough that it would still be deliciously tasty. He’d decided to forego plates and had just dropped three dollops of ice cream right in the middle and handed Derek a spoon. 

They both dug in and Stiles was pleased that his pie game was improving. He made a lot of baked goods, but they tended to mostly just be brownies and cookies. Pies were still kind of new for him, and he didn’t have Cora around to help like he had last time. Considering, he thought it was pretty good. 

Derek seemed to think so too, considering he was eating it like this was a race he was determined to win. Seriously, Werewolves were _so_ fucking unfair with their stupid ability to eat whatever and not gain any weight. Stiles honestly felt like he was getting pudgy, he needed to lose weight. 

“I know today is meant to be about us meeting,” Stiles said, pulling a slice of apple out of the pie and sticking it into his mouth. “But I was hoping after we’re done celebrating our first meeting where you manhandled me out of my Jeep and shoved me into the Camaro like a Werewolf kidnapper—” Derek cuffed him lightly across the back of the head. “—I was hoping we could maybe stop by the cemetery and see dad. And mom, obviously.” 

Derek nudged him lightly in a clear, “Of course. Any time you want.” 

“Thanks.” He smiled at him, then leaned more into him while continuing to pick at what was left of the pie, Derek really going to town on inhaling the whole thing. “It really is such a weird day for me. I want to be happy, and I want to be sad, so I just kind of end up in this weird in between state.”

Derek pressed his lips together and then rested his head against Stiles’, setting his fork down so he could reach out and grip his thigh lightly in comfort. It kind of hurt Stiles to know that Derek had lost people he cared about too, but he never seemed to want to talk about them. He wished he knew when Laura was killed so that he could be there for Derek the way he was always there for Stiles. 

He supposed it was just one of those things that got easier with time. He already knew that this year hurt less than last year had. It still hurt, and he knew it would always hurt, but it just... hurt _less_. 

“Hey Derek?”

He got a grunt in response, suggesting he was listening, though he hadn’t gone back to eating the pie. 

“One day, when you get your voice back, I’d really like it if you told me about your family.” 

Derek was silent, and Stiles thought maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. But then Derek squeezed his thigh again in a very clear, “Sure,” and he couldn’t help but smile. 

He liked that Derek trusted him to get his voice back. He knew it would take a while, but he was hopeful. If he didn’t have hope, then he had nothing. 

He’d spoken to Chris only once about it, but unfortunately the man wasn’t magically inclined so he wasn’t able to help. He did, at least, apologize for what had happened to Derek, but when he’d offered to tell Stiles some of it, Stiles had immediately refused. If he heard about what Kate did to Derek, it was going to be from Derek himself. Nobody else was allowed to share that, because it wasn’t their right to spill his secrets. 

For some reason, that answer had made Chris smile, and he’d said Stiles was one of the best people he’d ever met. He hadn’t understood what he meant at the time, but he realized a little later when he’d gone home to Derek that maybe other people wouldn’t want to wait. Maybe other people would want to know. Maybe they’d believe Derek was never going to be able to tell him the whole story himself because he was never going to get his voice back. 

Stiles didn’t believe that. Derek would get it back eventually. It was only a matter of time. 

“We should do something,” Stiles said, sitting up and looking at Derek. The Werewolf cocked his eyebrow at him, and shifted his hand off Stiles’ thigh, clearly sensing the moment of wallowing had passed and returning to finishing up the pie. 

Stiles was done anyway, Derek could have the rest. 

“You know, something fun. We talked a while back about art classes or whatever, you know, since we did that one pottery course. We should go out and do something, have fun.” 

Derek flicked him in a way that said, “Every moment I share with you is fun.” 

“Ugh.” Stiles buried his face in Derek’s shoulder and groaned loudly. “You’re such a sap, I can’t handle it. You’re lucky I love you, anyone else would’ve been disgusted by your sap months ago.” 

Derek just chuckled and set the pie plate on the coffee table. Stiles turned his head slightly to confirm it was empty, and it was. 

“Why don’t we just—you know, go out and do something? Anything. Like, walk around downtown holding hands like losers and talking to people. I mean, you’re the Alpha and I feel like nobody sees you. They all respect you, you know. It’d probably be nice for them to see that you’ve been doing well since you’re almost always holed up in here with me. Or out with Rose and Alex.” He pretended to glare at him. “You better not like them more than me.” 

The Werewolf cocked his head as if he was thinking, then made a debatable sound and Stiles smacked him. 

“Asshole. Careful, or I’ll think Jackson’s pretty enough to date.” 

He got a scoff in answer, Derek clearly knowing it was an empty threat. Which it was, because much as he liked Jackson, they were friends and nothing more.

Besides, ever since he and Ethan had had that heart to heart, Jackson was slowly starting to be okay again, and he’d started coming around a bit more often _with_ Ethan. They were practically glued to each other, not that Stiles was one to talk given he had his own Alpha Werewolf glued to him.

And it was nice. Stiles liked that things were going so well, and that Jackson was slowly getting back to being himself. 

Sighing and sitting up, he smacked Derek lightly. “Come on, let’s go be productive. We should do the cemetery first, so I can get the doom and gloom part of the day over with, and then we can wander around town for a bit. Maybe we should bug Peter for dinner or something. Oh, what if we just had a small OG pack dinner? You know, just a few of us?” 

Derek smiled, which was as much of a yes as he could get and Stiles nodded once in response, pleased. He pulled out his phone to text the pack about the dinner plans, and within seconds got a reply from Peter. 

**[Peter]**  
I don’t recall allowing you to invite yourself and others over. 

**[Stiles]**  
i invited myself thanks!   
**[Stiles]**  
don’t worry i’ll bring food and help you cook :P

 **[Peter]**  
I would prefer my house to remain in one piece and fire-free, thank you. 

**[Stiles]**  
>:( 

**[Peter]**  
I have no idea what that means. 

Stiles sent back a middle finger instead, along with a, “What about this?” 

**[Peter]**  
I should’ve eaten you when you were a child.

 **[Stiles]**  
that’s kinda dark  
 **[Stiles]**  
see you at five! 

He shoved his phone back into his pocket after having checked his other messages. Most of the pack confirmed they could make it, but Parrish was working and Lydia and Cora had movie plans but said they would probably make it back before the night ended. 

Stiles smiled and clapped his hands together, turning to Derek. “All right, it’s a go. Let’s head out and have fun today.” 

Derek rolled his eyes like this entire thing was grossly inconvenient, but he still got to his feet and found his shoes so they could head out. 

Stiles was looking forward to going to the cemetery, for some reason. Probably because he honestly didn’t go often enough. He really should, he still hadn’t even told his parents he and Derek were dating. Not that it would be a surprise to them, because really, the only people who were surprised were Stiles and Derek. 

Apparently they were idiots. 

As he climbed into the Mustang beside Derek and buckled himself in, he found it hard to believe how far he’d come in two years. 

Two years. 

His life before being a Spark felt like a lifetime ago. 

He didn’t even remember who he used to be. Not that he minded, he was more than happy with who he’d become. Yes, there were still some dark patches and some angsting, but he tried to focus on the positive. He wanted to emulate the person he was hoping to be, so he tried for optimism.

And once he really got his magic under control, well, things would only get better from there. 

He reached out to put his hand on top of Derek’s on the gear shift, the Werewolf glancing at him and smiling before facing the road again. 

Stiles missed his dad every day, but he was happy. His life was starting to fall into place. 

He really hoped things only got better from here. 

* * *

It was a warm, muggy summer day while Stiles and Derek were being lazy and lounging around in the house that a loud sneeze echoed through the loft and the television turned on. 

Stiles had leaned out of the kitchen doorway to stare at it in confusion, because while he’d been grabbing a drink out of the fridge, Derek had been standing _right beside him_ making them nachos for the movie they were going to watch.

They’d yet to choose a movie, but that wasn’t the point. 

When Stiles’ eyes found the television and determined that, yep, it was definitely on when it hadn’t been a second ago, he moved back into the kitchen to stare at Derek, who arched an eyebrow right back at him. 

“That was off, right? Like, I’m not crazy?” 

Derek made a debatable face and Stiles smacked him, finishing up with grabbing his drink and heading back out to the living room. He slowly uncapped the lid of his previously started Coke, staring at the TV. He kept his eyes on the screen while he took a sip—it was on some cooking show, Derek seemed to like the Food Network—and then slowly lowered it once more, twisting the lid back on. 

He stared down at his hands while doing so, tightening the cap on his bottle before setting it down on the coffee table and crossing his arms, frowning at the TV. 

Last he checked, sneezing didn’t usually turn on the Food Network. 

Bringing one hand up to stare at his pointer finger, he shrugged, then aimed it at the screen, silently commanding it to change to another channel. 

All the lights turned off. 

“Okay, this is new,” he said, looking at his finger again. He heard Derek coming out of the kitchen and turned to him, finger still raised. “I control the TV and the lights, apparently.” 

The look he got warned him not to explode the lights again, which he rolled his eyes at. Seriously, he couldn’t be faulted for that, Derek had been kissing him while lying on top of him, the guy was lucky he didn’t just set the whole loft on fire. 

He could do it, too. That was a thing he could do. Not usually on command, but still. Actually, he really needed to practice all the spells he wasn’t good at, but the problem was... there were so _many_. He was but one simple man who wanted to cuddle on the couch with his hot Werewolf boyfriend, it was hard feeling motivated to practice. 

Really, he kept hoping he’d just wake up one day and be able to _do_ everything, but so far, no dice. He was sure his lack of confidence, constant anxiety over Void taking over and general worry of using too much power wasn’t helping him in the ‘do everything’ category, but at least he was trying. 

“So what are we thinking?” Stiles asked, finger still raised. He crooked it up and down a few times, like he was working it out. “Can I suddenly control all things electrical, or is this a kind of magic specific to turning things on and off?”

Derek set the nachos down on the coffee table, wiping his hands on the butt of his jeans while heading for the light switch. Stiles took the opportunity to steal a nacho, which earned him an unimpressed look, but nothing further. 

When he stopped beside the lights, Derek flipped them on and off a few times, but the lights overhead didn’t turn back on. It was still relatively bright out, given it was still summer, so it wasn’t going to be a problem until later. 

He hadn’t blown the lights up though, so they really should be turning back on. 

“Hm,” Stiles said, licking cheese grease off his fingers and glancing at the television. He pointed one finger at it again, and then almost leapt through the roof when the garburator in the kitchen turned on.

Derek turned to stare incredulously before facing Stiles again, because that thing had been broken since the day they’d moved in. 

Great, now he had to figure out how to turn it _off_! He was just trying to change the channel, dammit! 

Moving into the kitchen quickly, the loud grating sound of broken metal almost painful to his ears, he flipped the switch repeatedly to turn the damn thing off, but it didn’t work. Predictably. If the lights didn’t work, neither would this. 

“Great,” he muttered as Derek joined him, wincing at the noise. It was probably worse for his poor Werewolf ears. “How am I supposed to turn this off?” 

Derek glanced at him, then shrugged before putting one hand lightly on his shoulder. “Focus,” he was saying. 

“Focus,” Stiles repeated. “Yeah. Right. I’m _so_ good at that.” 

That earned him a light cuff to the temple but he didn’t bother scowling over it. Derek was right anyway, he needed to figure out what he was doing, or they would be sans lights and plus a loud annoying garburator for the rest of time. 

Shaking his hands out and rolling his neck, as if that would help him concentrate, he placed both hands on the edge of the sink and stared down at the drain where the loud rattling sound continued. 

He knew he wasn’t going to be able to do it. He had no idea what kind of magic this was and, as he already knew from the dozens of _other_ spells he’d attempted without knowing how he was doing them, it meant he couldn’t replicate them. 

His thoughts must’ve been broadcast on his face, because Derek squeezed his shoulder more tightly and grunted, the sound coming out a little annoyed. He knew Derek hated it when he was self-deprecating. 

He couldn’t help it! His magic still sucked when compared to his mother. Sure, he was good at _some_ things, but it wasn’t like it hadn’t escaped his notice that the only magic he _really_ excelled at was Witch magic, and that was because he’d had a fucking phenomenal teacher. 

All his other magics were sub-par, at best. Passable, but still nothing great. And when he panicked, he still alternated between being able to use random magic like back at the Collector’s house in May, and being paralysed entirely with his mind going blank like it had back on the road last July. 

The cuff he got this time was a bit harder, more painful. It was Derek telling him to _stop_ thinking he couldn’t do it, because he never _would_ do it if he didn’t believe he could. 

“It’s not only about belief, you know,” he muttered.

Derek’s look suggested otherwise. It said that _he_ believed in Stiles, and if Stiles could just believe in himself, he would be able to do amazing things. 

Stiles wanted to make Derek proud. He wanted to make his mother proud. He wanted people to really see him as the Spark, the way Jackson had a few months back when he’d blasted the cuffs off his wrists. 

“I can do this,” he said aloud, Derek’s hand squeezing in agreement. “I can do this. So _shut up_ ,” he snapped at the garburator. 

It went silent immediately.

But didn’t turn off. 

“Okay,” he said with an annoyed sigh. “Well, we’re halfway there, I guess.” 

The amused chuckle from beside him just annoyed him, and he elbowed Derek in the side before exhaling sharply and saying, “Stop.” 

The garburator turned off and he straightened instantly. “Oh, it worked!” 

Derek laughed at his delighted reaction and kissed his temple. “Told you you could do it,” the action said, and he dragged Stiles out of the kitchen to point up at the lights before heading for the switch. He’d turned them off, so he flicked them back on while Stiles held both hands palm up and licked his lips, staring up at the lights. 

_Don’t explode,_ he thought to himself. _Do **not** explode. Just... turn on._

The lights turned on and he let out a loud, excited laugh, doing a weird tuck-jump and almost hitting his chin with his knees before he landed again and turned to Derek, motioning himself excitedly. “Did you see that?! I _did_ that! On _purpose_!” 

It was clear Derek was trying not to roll his eyes, like this was all ridiculous because of _course_ Stiles could do these things. Derek never doubted his ability to do anything, and it made his chest warm at how much faith he always had in him. 

When his boyfriend wandered back over to him, he just kissed him lightly in a, “Good job,” sort of way before jerking his head towards the couch and leading the way to it. 

Stiles followed, waiting for Derek to sit down so he could curl into his side. It was kind of too warm for cuddling, but Derek was comfortable and Stiles was still positive he could magically regulate his body temperature since he never seemed to be cold _or_ hot, the dick. 

He would suffer through some sweating if it meant being close to Derek, though. So he curled into his side comfortably once Derek had brought the nachos onto his lap, and they both settled to watch TV while they munched. 

They didn’t end up putting on a movie, instead watching the cooking show that was on. When it moved into another, Derek turned to glance at him to see what his thoughts were on continuing with the show, and he just shrugged indifferently. Really, it was just about lazing on the couch with Derek that he was there for, what they watched wasn’t really of importance. 

Derek smiled, like he was glad they could keep the show on, and turned back to the TV. 

Stiles was watching him more than the television, eyes focussing on every small movement of his features. The way his lips twitched when something funny happened on the screen. The distressed furrow between his brows when the clock was counting down the end of a round. The flaring of his nostrils when the chefs described their dishes in such a way that he could almost smell them. 

God, this man. Stiles could hardly handle it. 

“Hey Derek?” 

The Werewolf tilted his head in his direction to show he was listening, but didn’t look away from the screen. 

Stiles leaned forward to kiss his cheek, Derek’s beard rough beneath his lips. He didn’t mind, he loved the beard, it made him look all rugged and handsome. 

When Derek turned to him, clearly asking why he’d been worthy of a kiss in that moment, Stiles just shrugged and leaned into him a bit more. 

“I love you.” 

Derek’s smile was soft, his entire frame seeming to relax even more than it already was. He brought his opposite hand up to touch Stiles’ cheek and pulled his face closer so he could press his lips lightly to his. Then he let his forehead rest against Stiles’ for a moment, closing his eyes while his thumb brushed lightly against his cheekbone. 

“I love you too,” the action said. 

Stiles smiled, because he was never going to get tired of all the different ways Derek told him how much he loved him. 

* * *

“This is weird,” Stiles insisted in a low voice, despite knowing it was ridiculous to even _attempt_ to keep his voice down given he was sitting beside a Werewolf with two more headed their way. Derek just smiled without commenting, one hand rubbing idly at Stiles’ back in a slow, steady up and down motion. 

Stiles loved that Derek never wanted to stop touching him, because he honestly found so much comfort in having him close, having him within reach, having him just... _right there_. 

“What’s up losers?” Jackson asked, sliding into the booth and down across from Derek with Ethan taking the one next to him. 

“My blood pressure, you?” Stiles asked. 

Jackson paused, momentarily confused, then realized Stiles was being literal to his ‘what’s up’ inquiry. He could’ve said ‘the ceiling’ but his blood pressure probably _was_ up. He lived in a constant state of anxiety, it was a miracle he’d lasted this long without keeling over, really. 

“Can’t believe you idiots thought this was a good place for this,” Jackson said, throwing one arm over the back of the booth so it was behind Ethan. He looked around, like he hated the place, but Stiles knew he didn’t. They’d eaten at the diner loads of times before and he’d never complained.

He’d probably just wanted to spoil Ethan or something, but realistically, this wasn’t about spoiling each other and eating a one-hundred dollar steak covered in caviar or whatever. It was about the company, and the four of them trying this super awkward thing called a double date. 

Stiles still insisted it was weird, but Cora had texted earlier to say Jackson had spent almost twenty minutes picking an outfit since he was looking forward to the outing, and then had gone mysteriously silent. Either she was dead, or Peter was going to blow a gasket at having to buy her a new phone. 

The poor guy, Stiles wished Alchemy really _could_ turn lead into gold, he’d definitely be giving Peter a whole bunch of it. 

“What do you even _do_ on a double date?” Stiles asked. He realized the stupidity of his question the second Jackson opened his mouth to answer. 

“How the fuck should we know?” 

Right. They’d been caged by Collectors. Stiles had been trapped in a comfortable prison. Derek was probably the closest to knowing what a double date _was_ because of school, but the look on his face suggested he’d never gotten that close with anyone to warrant going _on_ a double date. Made sense, since his closest friend growing up seemed to be Kira, and Stiles was pretty sure she’d never been interested in dating anyone ever. 

Though to be fair, Stiles felt like this was more in an attempt to get to know Ethan. Despite his words back in May about spending more time together, they hadn’t really followed through on that. Jackson had been a bit of a mess for most of the summer, and while Stiles knew he was _better_ , he was far from being okay. He acted like his old self again when they were together, but he knew that Jackson had his own demons and these things didn’t heal themselves overnight. 

But, Stiles was optimistic. Jackson and Ethan were doing well, which meant that his friend was actually _happy_ most of the time. Ethan was trying harder to be around the pack more often, even if Aiden mostly kept to himself except where Lydia was concerned. 

Things were slowly falling into place. Sometimes, Stiles actually almost felt _normal_. 

That was probably because raids had been put on hold, so there wasn’t the constant reminder of what he was. He was glad though. Peter could see first-hand how Jackson was doing, considering he lived in his house, and Stiles was glad that, despite Jackson being adamant he was _fine_ and they should get back on it, Peter insisted they were on hold until he said so. 

Stiles knew why Jackson hated it, because every raid they postponed was another person forced to live as a commodity. But with how Stiles was mentally, and how Jackson was mentally, it would pose more of a risk for them to attempt anything with Alex being the only one thinking straight. 

“How’re things at the house?” Stiles asked when they were all silent for too long. “Construction in the Preserve coming along?” 

“Not really,” Jackson groused. “Summer is the busiest time of year for construction, so Sal and his guys have been in high demand. Peter’s got most of us out trying to help clear trees, but we’re Werewolves, not lumberjacks.” 

“I mean, he’s a lumberjack,” Stiles said, thumbing at Derek, then grinning at the unimpressed look that earned him. “Look at that lumberjack beard.” He reached out to drag his blunt nails through it on Derek’s closest cheek. His boyfriend pretended to tolerate it, but Stiles knew he secretly loved it. 

He really didn’t get why some people found beard to be a turn off, he couldn’t handle how much he loved Derek’s beard. If he ever shaved, Stiles would fucking mutiny. To the couch with him! No beardless Dereks in _their_ house, no sirree! 

Stiles’ fingers paused when the thought hit him, Derek arching an eyebrow in inquiry. 

_Their_ house. It really _was_ theirs, wasn’t it? They may only have been officially together since February, but they’d been living together for _two years_. That loft was his home with Derek. With his blanket fort inside a train car, and the five locks on the building’s front door, and the large terrace they never went out onto, and the bedroom they’d always shared, and...

Derek. 

Their loft, and his home, and Derek. 

“What’s with the stupid look on your face?” Jackson demanded. 

“Are you ever polite to him?” Ethan asked, sounding amused. 

“He’s been polite to _you_?” Stiles asked incredulously, which just earned him Jackson flipping him the bird. Stiles laughed and flipped it right back as their waitress headed over, smiling brightly at them. 

“Looks like everyone’s here!” she said cheerfully, seeing as Stiles had been forced to send her away twice because Ethan and Jackson had taken their sweet ass time showing up. She didn’t seem to mind though, she was often around when he and Derek came in for brunch so they both knew her fairly well. “What can I get for you?” 

For someone who claimed to hate the diner, Jackson ordered immediately without even opening the menu. He ignored Stiles’ smirk and flipped the menu over to point out the best sandwiches when Ethan asked about them. 

While he was looking them over, Stiles ordered some chicken and waffles, because yes breakfast food for dinner! Derek didn’t seem happy, because he was the sugar police, but he didn’t make him take it back and just got himself a steak and fries. Stiles was glad about the fries, he planned on stealing some. 

Once Ethan decided on his meal, the waitress promised she’d be back with some waters since nobody had ordered any drinks and then left them to their conversation. 

It was a bit stilted at first, mostly because none of them had ever done something like this before and Ethan wasn’t as practised at speaking eyebrow. Stiles carried most of it, as was the norm, but Ethan was actually really good at helping him along. Once they’d moved out of the ‘this is a double date’ stage and more into the ‘we’re just four dudes who happen to be dating who are friends and hanging out’ stage, things relaxed and the evening got more fun. 

Stiles got to tell Ethan about all the embarrassing things Jackson had ever done before he’d met him, and Jackson retaliated by very loudly informing Ethan that the whole pack had made a _group chat_ because Stiles and Derek were in love with each other and too fucking stupid to figure it out themselves. 

Ethan had honestly been surprised that they’d only started dating in February, because even when they’d met the first time at the house, he and Aiden had already assumed they were an item. 

“To be fair,” Jackson said, Ethan’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and rubbing at his arm while he spoke, “I knew Derek liked Stiles for _months_. Stiles was a lot better at hiding it, so I don’t blame Derek for not realizing he loved him. I blame Stiles for being a fucking idiot.” 

Derek laughed and Stiles let out an affronted sound, resisting the urge to throw some of his fried chicken at Jackson because then he’d be down one piece of fried chicken. 

“How the hell was _I_ supposed to know?! He didn’t _tell_ me!” 

“He didn’t have to, the flashing neon sign above his head was pretty obvious,” Jackson said with a smirk. 

“I hate you,” Stiles grumbled grumpily, Derek still chuckling beside him. Oh sure, _he_ could laugh. _He_ hadn’t been called an idiot. “How did you find out, anyway?”

“About him?” Jackson asked, jerking his chin at Derek. 

“About me.” 

“When Chris and Allison showed up, and you sent Derek off to talk to Cora, you had this look on your face.” Jackson shrugged. “I realized that you looked at him like that a lot when he wasn’t paying attention to you. Then I realized that Derek did the same thing, and I already knew _he_ loved you, so I kind put it together myself.” 

“ _You_ did? Did it hurt?” Stiles grinned and quickly tucked his feet up, knowing Jackson would try and kick him. Which he did, though their positions made him accidentally hit Derek instead, who kicked him back like the giant child he was. 

Laughing, Stiles took the opportunity to save his shins by standing to head for the bathroom, moving through the diner and waving at a few people who greeted him, a huge smile on his face. 

Tonight was going really well. Ethan had always kind of kept to himself, probably because he and Aiden were a paired set who stayed together, but it was nice _truly_ getting to know him. He was a cool guy, and he had a really dry sense of humour, Stiles liked it.

He kind of hoped Aiden would soften up around the edges so he wouldn’t be so isolated. It was probably hard having his twin out all the time while he stayed behind in the motel all alone. 

Drying his hands and heading out of the bathroom once he was done, he moved back towards the table while glancing out the window and frowned at the sight of two black SUVs parked in the lot. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to them, and Stiles couldn’t see anything through the mirrored windows, but they weren’t really cause for concern so he shrugged them off and slid back into his seat across from Ethan, smile back on his face. 

Tonight really _was_ a good night. 

* * *

Stiles couldn’t help the huge yawn that escaped him while he lay curled up in his little blanket fort in the train car. He blamed Derek, because it was hard to sleep when your super hot Werewolf boyfriend wasn’t interested in sleeping, and who was Stiles to deny Derek what he wanted? 

Not that he ever would, because Derek deserved all the good things, and even if Stiles knew he wasn’t necessarily a _good_ thing, Derek wanted him, so Stiles was going to let him have him. 

A sleepy smile spread across his face at the realization that this was real. Every now and then, it would hit him. He was actually dating Derek. It seemed so crazy, and it was so strange to imagine this was who they were now. They weren’t the same people as two years ago, Derek scowly and overly protective while holding Stiles prisoner in a hotel room. 

Honestly, Stiles was having a hard time remembering when he used to hate Derek. He knew he had, way back in the beginning, but it seemed like another person. It was basically a lifetime ago, at this point. 

“Stop getting distracted,” Stiles told himself, forcing his tired eyes to focus on the book in front of him. It was another lost magic book that Peter had given him from the Vault. This one was more focussed on curses and the only reason Stiles was reading it was because of why Peter had given it to him. 

If he understood curses, he could figure out how to break them. Every curse was different, of course, and given the book was about curses in general and not limited to any one particular form of magic, it meant nothing in here would be _exactly_ what Kate had used. But still, understanding the background of curses and how they worked meant he could potentially break Derek’s. 

He knew Derek wasn’t expecting a miracle. If anything, he seemed to have given up hope he’d ever get his voice back, and he was okay with it. He’d come to terms with it. He had Stiles, who could understand him better than anyone, and his friends and family were better at figuring him out now. He had the dictionary, which was slow and frustrating, but still useful. He was getting by, and that was enough.

But not for Stiles.

Not for Peter. 

Not for the people who cared about him. Who wanted to hear his voice again. Or for the first time, in Stiles’ case. And Jackson’s. 

This wasn’t right, and Stiles didn’t want to live in a world where Derek couldn’t freely express himself. What if something Stiles did on a regular basis pissed Derek off? Or disgusted him? Or made him uncomfortable? 

They still hadn’t exactly moved very far in their relationship in a sexual sense. Stiles was okay with that, because he was still a little messed up in the head, and he knew Derek had been through hell while with Kate. And their relationship wasn’t based on sex anyway, so neither of them missed it. 

But he knew that Derek expected him to ask about it eventually, despite what had happened on Stiles’ birthday. 

Stiles was never going to ask, because he couldn’t miss something he’d never experienced, but he hated that he knew Derek expected him to ask. And once he did, Derek couldn’t explain where he was at mentally on the sex thing. 

To be honest, Stiles was perfectly fine with the kissing and snuggling and just _being_ together. Sex didn’t make their relationship more or less of a relationship, and he was trying to explain that to Derek without actually _saying_ it, because he knew Derek would think he was just saying that as a means to make him feel better.

He wasn’t. Stiles honestly believed what they had was amazing in and of itself. He didn’t need it to go further. He had Derek, he got to hug and kiss him, got to tell him he loved him, got to get mad at him when Derek didn’t replace the toilet paper roll or drank the last of the coffee. He liked what they had, and he was happy. As long as Derek was too, then that was really the only thing that mattered. 

“Stop getting distracted!” Stiles insisted to himself again, shaking the book in his lap.

He was short on time to study this book, because Derek always hung out in the train car with him now. Sometimes he read, sometimes he played his guitar, sometimes he napped, but he was always close. Not because he didn’t like leaving Stiles alone anymore, but because they both found comfort in each other’s company. 

But if he was there, it meant Stiles couldn’t read about curses, because Derek would know what he was doing. Not that it was a secret, per se, but he knew whenever he obsessed about breaking Derek’s curse, it kind of upset him. Because it reminded Derek that he wasn’t whole. And Stiles also thought that, maybe, Derek felt like Stiles didn’t think he was worth anything if he couldn’t speak.

Which wasn’t the case at _all_! It was legitimately Stiles trying to help him, but he _knew_ Derek didn’t always see it that way, pessimistic bastard. So Stiles could only work on reading books to break curses while Derek was out. 

Like right now. 

Alex had called earlier that morning because Rose wanted to spend time with her favourite Werewolf, so he’d made sure Stiles would be okay—which he would, he was a powerful Spark and had many other friends, thank you _very_ much, Derek Hale!—and had left to go spend some time with them. Apparently Rose wanted to go swimming, so Alex had come to pick him up in Parrish’s car so that Stiles wouldn’t be trapped without transportation. Parrish was fine, he had the cruiser since he was on duty, but Stiles was usually stuck when he didn’t have a car. 

Not that Stiles ever really drove the Mustang, but it was nice having the option if he wanted to grab some ice cream without the sugar police around. 

Still, it was a shame to be missing out on the outing. 

Stiles would’ve loved to see Derek in a swimsuit, dripping wet while climbing out of the pool, water droplets sliding down his bronzed skin. The only reason he didn’t go was because he didn’t want to steal time away from Rose. She really liked Derek, and honestly, Stiles felt like Derek loved and appreciated that this little girl thought he was the _best_ thing ever considering he was mute. Stiles couldn’t take that away by being there, Derek would spend more time paying attention to him. 

He’d contemplated calling Scott or Jackson, but he didn’t often get time alone, and he figured he was due a break from other people. So, he’d made himself some Pop Tarts, grabbed a carton of chocolate milk from the fridge, and had gone down to his train car to curl up in his blanket fort and read some gross books about curses. 

It was already mid-September, so the temperature was beginning to drop, and Stiles was _so_ looking forward to winter, for once in his life. But that was only because now, winter meant hot chocolate, and warm cookies, and snuggles with a furnace Werewolf boyfriend. He was starting to really like winter, but only when the aforementioned hot chocolate, warm cookies, and snuggles with a furnace Werewolf boyfriend were involved. He didn’t think he’d appreciate the weather as much if he was outside during said cold weather. He supposed the Werewolf heater was the added bonus, because Stiles rarely got cold in bed anymore. 

He remembered how things were back in the cabin in Wyoming, how this had all started, the two of them sleeping snuggled up together. Sometimes, he wondered if even back then they’d both loved each other and just hadn’t realized it. After all, wasn’t like people snuggled together in bed all the time. Sure, there was platonic snuggling, but it had always been a little different with Derek. 

Stiles was still getting distracted thinking about Derek when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He jolted, startled, and pulled it free, staring at the screen with a small frown. Derek’s name was flashing back at him, which made no sense, because Derek never called. 

He couldn’t speak, there was no point. He usually just tried to convey something in emojis when he texted if Stiles wasn’t asking him questions. If he had the dictionary, he used that to take pictures of the specific words. Calling was off the table, because it was pointless. 

“Maybe Alex’s phone is dead,” Stiles decided, because Derek was with Alex, so obviously _someone_ could speak. He ignored the uneasy twist in his gut and answered the call, putting it to his ear. “Hey, you guys all done swimming?” 

_“Hello boy.”_

Stiles felt like his entire world had just tipped sideways. His lungs burned with the need for oxygen they were no longer getting, and his stomach twisted horribly, like he was going to throw up. 

No.

No, no, _n_ o! 

That voice...

That voice could _not_ be coming from Derek’s phone. It couldn’t, it fucking _couldn’t_! Because if it was... it meant he had Derek. It meant... Jesus fucking _Christ_ , it meant he had _Derek_! 

And not even just Derek. Stiles _really_ felt sick when he realized Derek had been with Alex and _Rose_! That meant the three of them were with him _right now_! 

Oh God, he was going to black out. He felt like he couldn’t breathe and he was going to black out. 

_“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”_ Gerard said, sounding smug and _pleased_. Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! 

It hadn’t even been a year since Stiles’ escape. He’d always known Gerard would come for him eventually. A man like that wouldn’t take losing property lying down. But honestly, it’d been so long that Stiles had _hoped_ he’d given up. After all, Stiles had escaped last December, and it was now September. He’d been positive after that long, Gerard had just decided to cut his losses. 

He’d let his guard down. Gerard had been counting on it. It was why he now had the upper hand. 

“What did you do to him?” Stiles demanded, voice sounding weaker than he intended it to, but he couldn’t help it. His brain was flashing back to being locked in that cell, alone and having to deal with the fear of Gerard going after Derek if he didn’t do as he was told. The people he’d hurt, the lives that had been taken with his help, the blood on his hands. 

He couldn’t go back there.

He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he fucking _couldn’t_. 

Fuck, he couldn’t breathe. He was going to pass out. 

_“He’s alive. For now.”_ Alive didn’t mean much. Alive just meant not dead. But maybe he was badly injured. Maybe he was being hurt by Kate even now, while Gerard was having a perfectly _pleasant_ conversation with Stiles. _“I must thank you for the added bonus, Stiles. I know quite a few Collectors who’d be interested in a Metamorph and an Elemental. Who knew you had such **interesting** friends?”_

“Don’t you _fucking_ touch them!” Stiles shouted, fear slicing through him. Oh God, what if Gerard sold Alex and Rose off? What if they were separated? Fucking hell, this was _bad_! 

_“You’re not in a position to make demands,”_ Gerard said darkly. _“You ran away. I warned you what would happen if you ran away. You have fifteen minutes to come back to me.”_

Stiles heard a loud snarl of anger and knew it was Derek. It was followed up by the sound of something heavy hitting flesh and Stiles heard Alex let out an outraged shout. 

“Stop it!” Stiles insisted, panic shooting through him at the thought of what they might be doing to Derek. “Stop it, don’t hurt him!” 

_“Tick tock, boy. I’ll send you the coordinates. Oh, and do be a **good boy** and come alone. If you bring any friends, I’ll know, and you will not like the outcome.”_

The line went silent. 

Stiles’ heart felt like it was going to beat itself right out of his chest, his breathing erratic and his brain going a mile a minute. 

Gerard had Derek. 

_Gerard_ had _Derek_! 

He tensed when his phone buzzed again, but this was just a text message. When he opened it, he saw it was from Derek’s phone again, and it was just a print-screen of Google maps with a destination highlighted. 

Stiles had felt Alex, Rose and Derek cross the barrier. He knew they’d gone to the next town over to enjoy their day at the recreational centre. The pool there was massive, and there was even a period of the day where it turned into a wave pool, something Stiles knew Rose loved because it was like being at the beach in the ocean. 

He hadn’t given their departure any thought. It wasn’t the first time people had left the safety of his protective bubble. Hell, Stiles himself had left it numerous times to help with the raids on Collectors. 

But he should’ve known Gerard would use it to his advantage. It was exactly how he’d gotten Stiles the last time, pulling Lydia out of the barrier before Stiles had thought to strengthen it. Using the area outside the safety of the town to lure Stiles into an area where they could get him. 

He should’ve known. He felt so fucking _stupid_. 

But he didn’t have time to dwell on it right now. Derek, Rose and Alex were in trouble, and he had to go. 

His entire body felt like stone when he shifted to stand, fear coursing through his veins like cement, but he managed to get to his feet and hurried out of his train car. He raced upstairs to the loft, wrenched open the door, and then tore the place apart looking for the Mustang’s keys. 

Derek had given the spare to Stiles specifically so that, the few rare times other people came to get him, Stiles would be able to go out if he wanted to. It made more sense giving him the spare than passing over his own set, because he might forget one day and inadvertently trap Stiles at the loft. Not that Stiles left the loft on his own if he could help it, and Derek still didn’t _like_ Stiles being out and about by himself, but they both acknowledged that he wasn’t the same scared teenager he had been back when they’d first met. 

Stiles was powerful. He was strong. He was a full-fledged _adult_ now. Yes, he was still only twenty and wouldn’t be allowed to drink until he turned twenty-one next April, but still! He was older, and wiser, and much, _much_ more confident in his powers. 

Except when it came to Gerard. Because he’d contained him once. It didn’t matter that Stiles knew the cuffs couldn’t hold him, because he knew _Gerard_ knew that, too. Gerard was the one increasing the power levels, so it stood to reason he’d have found a new way to keep Stiles in check. 

He didn’t think about that. He _couldn’t_ think about that. He just had to reach them before something happened. He’d throw himself at Gerard’s feet, beg for forgiveness, promise to never run away again. He would do anything and everything he had to in order to save Derek, Alex and Rose. 

Even if it meant giving up his freedom forever. Even if it meant being tortured, and abused, and controlled until the day he died. Even if it meant _Kate_ got to do whatever she wanted with him.

Stiles didn’t care. He didn’t. Anything, _anything_ to save Derek. 

He finally found the keys, heart hammering in his chest when he saw he’d lost two minutes. Gerard wasn’t one for tardiness. If Stiles was even a _second_ late... he didn’t want to think about it. 

Not bothering with shoes, Stiles tore back down the stairs, cursing all the locks on the exit door and slamming through it. He didn’t worry about locking up, didn’t worry about leaving himself out and exposed. He just ran for the Mustang and unlocked it. 

Once he was behind the wheel, he started the car while simultaneously plugging the address Gerard had given him into his phone, starting up his GPS. It was figuring out the route for him while he tore out of the lot and sped down the street. 

He had to be careful as he drove, because he knew if anyone saw the Spark driving the Alpha’s car breakneck speed through town, they would call Peter, or Parrish. Or even Deaton. They would see that, and know something was wrong. If the others caught wind, he didn’t worry that they’d follow.

He worried that they’d _stop him_. 

Peter would never let Stiles give himself up. Even for Derek. Even for _Rose_. Peter would stop him, lock him up somewhere until he was sure Gerard was gone, and force him to stay put until the danger had passed. 

Parrish would probably do the same, though less violently, Stiles was sure. But that didn’t make it any better, because if he didn’t go, Gerard was going to kill Derek.

Stiles couldn’t lose him. He could _not_ lose Derek. 

No.

Just— _no_! 

It was fucking _agony_ driving the speed limit, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. His vision kept swimming in and out of focus, like his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. 

Every time the GPS chirped an instruction at him, it startled ten years off Stiles’ lifespan. He followed each and every one, eyes constantly shifting to the time, terrified he was going to be late. The GPS said it should only take eleven minutes to reach his destination, but that wasn’t taking into account lights or traffic. 

When he was on the road leading out of town, Stiles _did_ start speeding a little bit. Not so much someone would pull him over if they caught him, but enough that he shaved two minutes off his intended arrival time. 

Going through the barrier felt like getting ice water dumped over his head. Usually it felt warm and comforting, and he figured the magic holding it in place was being infected by Stiles’ fear. Keeping the barrier up wasn’t even something he had to do consciously. If he disappeared from town, the barrier would still be there, because it was a spell he’d _cast_ , and nothing short of his death would dissolve it. 

Kind of like Derek and his curse, though they had no guarantee Kate’s death would break that. Curses and spells were very different. 

He turned off the main road a couple of minutes outside of town, and felt his chest clench when he saw Parrish’s car abandoned on the side of the road, two tires flat. The Hunters had probably done something to the road to force her to stop the car, and had surrounded them before they could do anything.

Rose was powerful, but on top of only being a child, she was a lot like Stiles. When she got scared, her brain shut down and she couldn’t use her abilities. If the Hunters got to her, Alex and Derek would stand down immediately, because they wouldn’t risk any harm coming to her.

Fuck. Fucking fuck, _fuck_! 

He kept driving down the road, seeing a large house with a barn in the back a little ways ahead. He knew they didn’t have any real farmland in this area, and figured it was a remnant of the past. Maybe the barn was the owner’s woodshop or something. Maybe he used it to fix cars. Stiles didn’t know, but he was sure nobody came this way very often. 

He hoped the owner was okay. He didn’t need another death on his hands, and he doubted the person who lived here was part of the Hunters’ circle, because the guy would’ve come for Stiles long ago if he was. 

Stiles stopped the Mustang right in front of the door, seeing eight other cars parked around him. Lots of people had come, not that he’d expected any less. 

After all, he was a powerful _weapon_. 

He climbed out of the car, feeling dizzy with fear, and slammed the door. Checking his phone, he saw he still had one minute, but he didn’t know where he was supposed to go.

It didn’t end up being a problem, because his arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed. Benson appeared on the porch a moment later from inside the house, giving Stiles a cruel smile in greeting. 

When his eyes shifted to look past the Hunter, he saw the front entrance was a mess, with an overturned table and a broken lamp. 

“What did you do to the owner?” Stiles demanded. 

“He’s still alive,” Benson insisted with a shrug. “Old man didn’t take too kindly to our plan of kidnapping the Spark. He knew your mother, you see.” Stiles felt those words like a stab in the chest. “He’s been living in this house his entire life, and always kept the Hales apprised of anything suspicious coming into town. Kind of like a last line of defence to avoid unwelcome parties from entering Beacon Hills. Age is catching up to him, though. He wasn’t quite fast enough to react when we showed up.” 

“When this is done,” Stiles said darkly, “you’re going to pay for that.” 

Benson let out a loud, boisterous laugh, like he knew as well as Stiles did that this was only going to end horribly for the Spark. Because he’d run away from his master, and good boys didn’t disobey. 

“Let’s get this over with. I hate California.” Benson moved down the porch steps and led the way towards the barn. Stiles bristled at how easily Benson turned his back to him, but the Hunter knew that they held all the cards. If Stiles did _anything_ right now, he risked losing the people he cared about. 

He followed, hands clenched tightly at his sides. 

Benson opened one of the barn doors, sliding it loudly to the side, and let out a high pitched whistle. “Look who decided to show up. Early, too. What a champ.” 

Stiles felt his stomach twist horribly as he followed Benson inside. The place smelled dusty, and as he predicted, it was virtually empty. A car in the back corner, a table with a few tools scattered on it. This wasn’t really a barn anymore as it was a massive storehouse. 

His eyes took the large space in quickly, without paying too much attention to details that were irrelevant. The car was important because it provided shelter from bullets. The tools were important because they were potential weapons. Everything else was inconsequential. 

Having narrowed those items down, he took in the people. There were only seventeen of them, which was far less than he’d expected given the eight cars parked outside. Some of them had blood on their clothes and various injuries, so it was possible there _had_ been more, but they were either dead or terribly wounded, and others had to try and patch them up. They were likely in the house.

Unfortunately, Kate was present. As was Gerard, of course. 

He finally focussed on the people he was there to protect, even though he’d wanted to delay it because the idea of looking at them made shame and guilt shoot through him. 

Rose was curled up in a little ball against the wall, her dark hair a dishevelled mess and tears streaming down her face. She was biting her bottom lip so hard, Stiles worried she might bite right through it, and her reddened cheek suggested she’d recently been hit. Someone had probably told her to shut up and stop crying, and had then hurt Alex to make her comply. 

He didn’t miss the cuffs around her wrists, pushing her powers back, and there was a Hunter positioned right beside her with a rifle aimed at her head. 

Alex was across the barn on the other side, on her knees with her hands locked behind her head. She was bleeding from a cut at her temple and her clothes were shredded and torn—likely from having shifted into an animal larger than her clothes could accommodate—and she looked _furious_. She also had cuffs on, and Stiles felt they were tighter than necessary because he could see blood sliding slowly down her forearms, like she’d pissed people off and they wanted to remind her she wasn’t in charge anymore. 

Derek was the last one he looked at, because he was afraid to. 

The Werewolf was in the middle of the barn, lying face-first on the floor. Gerard’s foot was on Derek’s head, forcing him to stay down while the Werewolf growled and struggled. There were large bolts embedded in Derek’s forearms, pinning him to the ground, like some kind of massive nail-gun had been shot right through his skin and bones. He was bleeding, and clearly in a lot of pain, but even from this distance he could see the panic on Derek’s face. 

He didn’t want to lose Stiles again. He looked like he might _die_ if he lost Stiles again. 

He didn’t have a choice. Stiles couldn’t let them hurt Derek any more than they already had. He couldn’t let them take Rose and Alex. 

It didn’t matter what the cost was, he had to protect these people. He had to make sure they made it out of here alive and in one piece. 

“Hello boy,” Gerard said, his voice making Stiles tense unintentionally. “Did you think I’d forgotten you?” 

Stiles knew better than to answer. Not while Rose had a gun aimed at her. Not while Alex was on her knees at the Hunters’ mercy. Not when Gerard’s foot was pressing Derek’s head further into the wood beneath them. 

He knew better than to answer, but he didn’t want Gerard to know how fucking _terrified_ he was. 

So he said, “Could’ve just sent a postcard. ‘Wish you were here’ and all that.” 

Gerard’s smile was cruel and Stiles heard Derek grunt, like the man had put more weight on the foot crushing Derek’s head. “Still got some spirit in you, I see. That was my mistake the first time. I should’ve broken that instead of relying on this monster to keep you in line. But things will be different this time around. Kate.” 

Stiles tensed at her name, the woman sauntering forward like she was trying to be a model on a catwalk. He could hear Derek snarling and what little of him he could see was struggling, but he didn’t budge. Whatever they’d used to pin him down was doing good work. 

It pissed him off, because Stiles _knew_ they could’ve just used mountain ash, but Gerard wanted to _hurt_ Derek. And he wanted to hurt him because he knew it would hurt _Stiles_. 

“Let’s see those hands,” Kate ordered, stopping in front of him. 

Stiles clenched his jaw, wanting to do something, _anything_ , but he honestly didn’t know if he could get away with it. One wrong move, and Rose might get a bullet to the head. If he tried to use a specific spell and it didn’t work, or worse, it _did_ but not well enough, someone was going to die. 

So he obediently raised his hands. Kate grinned and reached out, the restrictors burning like they always did when she put them on. But... less than usual. Actually, the burn lasted only a second, and he could barely even feel them. Stiles looked down at his wrists.

The restrictors Kate put on him—as well as Satomi, the one time she’d done it—were usually pitch black against his pale skin, but these ones were almost... grey. Like they were barely able to touch him. 

He hoped Kate didn’t notice, and actually felt _relieved_ when she pulled out new cuffs. Because they were still just _cuffs_. Like they’d always been. Maybe a newer model, maybe something with GPS and a shock function, but still... they were just cuffs. 

As if Gerard thought he could still control Stiles so long as he didn’t reach one hundred before he broke him. 

Stiles really, _really_ hoped it didn’t show on his face, how relieved he was, because Gerard was watching him closely for any signs of disobedience. Kate snapped the first cuff into place. It hurt, biting into his skin, the spikes pushing through like they always did. 

He felt a little cold, but nothing more. He didn’t feel particularly weak, which he’d worried about given it had been months since he’d worn a set of these, but he felt almost nothing. Aside from the chill that crept up his spine, it was like nothing had happened. 

It took a conscious effort for him to actually pretend he felt weak and exhausted, because Gerard was smart, and he’d catch on before long. Stiles made his shoulders droop while Kate snapped the second cuff into place, mind going a mile a minute.

Right now, they still had the advantage. Stiles wasn’t going to be contained, so he just had to think about what to do to get them out of this before Gerard caught on. He really, _really_ wished he knew how to control that time freezing spell. He’d tried using it so many times in the past, but it never seemed to work. If there was _ever_ a time he needed it though, it was now, and he wished he could just _do it_. 

“Now,” Gerard said, Kate moving aside while her father stepped off Derek and moved up to Stiles. 

Derek lifted his head and struggled, snarling and snapping his teeth. Stiles stared at him, because he was worried about the damage to his arms and legs with how he was being pinned down. Fuck, he hoped he could get those things out, he honestly had no fucking idea if he could. 

“Do you know what a wolfsbane bullet does to a Werewolf?” Gerard asked, stopping in front of Stiles and pulling his gun out. 

Stiles’ eyes snapped back to him while the man took the safety off and cocked the barrel. “What?” 

“It’s a very slow, painful death, I hear. The body is trying to heal, but the poison is spreading, shutting down a Werewolf’s natural accelerated healing. I’ve heard it can sometimes take _hours_ for the wolf to die.” 

Dread settled in the pit of Stiles’ stomach, but his brain was taking too long to catch up. “What?” he asked again. 

“I told you what would happen if you ran, boy.” 

The shot echoed loudly in the empty barn. Stiles heard Rose _shriek_. Alex let out a dismayed cry. 

Derek howled with pain, the bullet having torn right through his spine, embedding itself in his body and spreading the poison just as Gerard had said it would. 

It had been so fast. Stiles’ brain wasn’t able to keep up with it, because it had all happened so fast. 

Slowly. 

So slowly. 

His brain. 

Caught up. 

And he had a split second to catch the look of agony on Derek’s face shift into one of terror before his vision went black.

_Oh no..._

* * *

Stiles was lying flat on his back, water sloshing around his body, steadily rising upwards. 

_“They hurt our wolf!”_ a furious voice raged from somewhere to his left. _“Our wolf, our wolf, **our wolf**! They hurt our wolf! He is ours, ours, ours, **ours**!”_ The voice was getting louder and louder with each shout of the word. 

The water was rising faster. Stiles tried to move, but he lacked the energy. Derek had just been shot in the fucking _spine_. By a wolfsbane bullet. He was going to die. And if he didn’t, what if that shot had paralysed him? 

What if Stiles had taken both his voice _and_ his mobility just by existing? 

Maybe this was better. Maybe he should just let Void take over. At least nobody would have to get hurt anymore because of him. 

_“Let us in, yes, **yes**! The Spark lets us in. We will avenge our wolf. We will protect him, take care of him. Because he is ours. Our wolf. **Our wolf**! No one should touch our wolf! We will make them pay!”_

The water was rising faster, he could feel it soaking his clothes, rising up over his forearms. He lay there staring up at the darkness while Void laughed somewhere beside him, talking about how much he was going to make them all pay for hurting their wolf. 

Stiles thought about that. What Void might do. He’d probably kill the Hunters. That made him uncomfortable. Sure he hated them, and he’d never judged Jackson for killing Harris, but Stiles wasn’t a murderer by nature. Even if Void wasn’t _technically_ him, it still was. Kind of. He didn’t want to be a murderer. He didn’t want to kill people.

Not even _these_ people. 

But then... what about after that? 

Stiles could feel the water rising up past his ears, still lying flat on his back on the hard ground. He knew once it engulfed him entirely, Void would be in charge. And that was kind of what he needed right now. He wasn’t strong enough to save Derek, and he knew Void would be.

But still, what would come after? 

Void always called Derek their wolf. But what if the meaning behind it was more like how Kate had treated Derek? What if Void caged Derek up, and used him like he was nothing more than an animal? After all, Void never called him Derek. It was always ‘our wolf,’ which meant Derek wasn’t a person to him. He was just a possession. 

And what if Void went crazy on everyone. After all, it was said nothing but a Spark could stop a Void, and he was the last one. What if Void went postal and just destroyed everything? Stiles knew once he went Void there was no coming back, people had told him that the first time Void had started to take over. The fact that he’d managed to pull himself back was a miracle, in their opinion. 

Derek had looked scared. 

He’d just been shot, he was going to die a slow, painful death because of a wolfsbane bullet, and he’d looked terrified of _Stiles_. Because they both knew what set him off, what happened when other people hurt Derek in front of him. The last time he’d been too scared of losing him, he’d kept Void back just by sheer terror alone.

This time was different. Because Gerard was trying to kill him right in front of his very eyes. And Derek had looked _scared_. 

Of Stiles.

Of _Stiles_! 

He didn’t know what Void was going to do, but he couldn’t handle Derek looking that scared of him. 

The water was up by his temples now. He was very short on time. 

Could he do this? Could he save the others? He’d never actually _tried_ to _be_ a Spark before. He always insisted he wasn’t good enough, his magic wasn’t controlled. But he’d _done_ amazing magic all by himself without even trying. He _was_ powerful, he was just too scared to release his full potential. 

And why? Because he didn’t want people to be scared of him? Because he thought he might fail? Because he didn’t want the world to think the last Spark in existence was a dud?

He didn’t know. He had no idea why he always doubted himself. His mother had saved the world, she’d _died_ because she hadn’t been strong enough to hold out after using all her magic to save the fucking _world_.

And Stiles was going to go Void because he couldn’t save three people? 

Water slid into his eyes and he clenched them shut, took a deep breath through his nose, and forced himself to sit up.

 _“No!”_ Void screamed at him angrily, stomping through the water towards him while Stiles struggled to his feet. _“No, no, **no**! We were **so close**! Let us in!” _

Void grabbed Stiles by the front of his wet shirt, wrenching him forward until their noses almost touched. His face was distorted and wrong, eyes so black they were like pits of nothingness. Sharp teeth had overtaken his mouth, like hundreds of tiny blades, and he looked more like a monster than like Stiles this time. 

_“We can save him! Our wolf! You are going to kill our wolf!”_

“No,” Stiles said with conviction. “I’m not. You always come when I’m at my lowest point, but that’s because you know it’s easier to get to me when I’m not feeling my best. I’m never going to let you in.” Stiles reached up and shoved Void back. 

He released him, but Stiles’ shirt ripped. Void bared his teeth in an angry growl. 

_“You will **fail** without us! Only **we** can save our wolf!”_

“I love him a fuckton more than your scary ass does,” Stiles shot back. “I’m not going to lose him.”

_“You are **nothing** without us! The Hunters will never fear you like they do us!”_

Stiles felt his hand twitch at the words, a thought coming to him. 

Void was right. To Gerard, to the Hunters, he was just the Spark. Powerful, yes, but they knew him. He would protect those around him, and he never wanted anyone to get hurt. Certainly would never _kill_ anyone. He was an easy read.

But Void... Void was unpredictable. He was a monster who fed off chaos and pain. He liked to sew dissent, liked to see people hurt and bleed. He would raze the earth and laugh the entire time, relishing in the panic and fear, feeding off it. 

They would never be afraid of Stiles, because they knew how to control him. 

Void, on the other hand, was a loose canon, and they would be _terrified_ of him. 

Stiles felt a grin slowly cross his features, and for the first time since they’d met, _Void_ finally looked like he was afraid. Like the sight of the Spark grinning at a time like this caused him great unease. 

“Thanks,” he said honestly. “You just gave me a great idea.” 

Time to go back. 

Time to show Gerard Argent _exactly_ who he was fucking with. 

* * *

Stiles had never done this before. He didn’t even know if he _could_ do it. But he knew he could turn into a shadow, so he could make darkness spread up his arms. He knew he could make them go black without being completely transparent, at least to an extent. 

And his skin was already really pale. All he had to do was focus on the lighting. He could control the light bouncing off him to wash him out a bit, make him look as pale and almost see-through as Void was. 

The eyes were the hard part. He’d never had to do anything like this before, but he was the _Spark_ , God dammit. He was the Spark, and he could do fucking _anything_! So if he wanted to make people see him as Void, he fucking _would_! 

So he forced himself to believe he could do this, forced himself to use all the magic he had at his disposal to look like Void, and then opened his eyes. 

Gerard stood frozen in front of him, and for the first time since meeting him, the man looked _afraid_. 

“Hello,” Stiles said in his best impersonation of Void. “We have been looking forward to meeting you.” 

He raised both hands the same way he usually did when the cuffs went on, and with all the power he could muster, he forced them to snap open. They did so with a loud crack, the metal breaking and clattering to the floor. It was something he’d done many times before, but it had never felt quite as satisfying as it did in this moment. 

As it did while seeing the fear in Gerard’s eyes twist into terror. 

“Won’t be needing those anymore. Oh look,” he said, eyes shifting to Derek, who looked fucking _wrecked_. He wanted to tell him it was fine, not to worry, that they would get out of this, but he couldn’t break the facade yet. “It’s our wolf.” He twisted his head back to Gerard on a bit of an angle, mimicking Void to perfection. “Don’t touch our things. We don’t like it when other people touch our things.” 

Stiles shot out one hand and _pushed_ as hard as he could. Energy exploded from his palm and Gerard flew through the air and slammed into the side of the barn. He hadn’t meant to toss him _quite_ that hard, but when Gerard landed and groaned, he knew he hadn’t killed him, at least. 

“Dad!” 

When Kate went to move, Stiles stood in her path. He hadn’t meant to move as fast as he did, but figured he was over-amped on power right now, because he honestly _believed_ he was the most powerful being in the world. He knew that he was, but he’d never fully believed it. Now that he did, well, things were getting a little interesting. 

Stiles’ hand closed around her throat when she ran right into him and he tilted his head to the side, offering her a manic grin. “You thought you could have what belongs to us. You touched him when he is _ours_. Our wolf, _our wolf_!” 

He lifted Kate off the ground, and then slammed her down hard into the floor, hearing the wood splinter beneath her weight. He recognized he was starting to lose himself a bit, because he was pretending to be Void, which was allowing Void to creep out just the tiniest bit, so he forced him back. 

Taking a breath that nobody saw, and kind of glad he’d knocked Kate unconscious, Stiles stood and looked around the room. All the Hunters had taken multiple steps back. The one who’d been guarding Rose had moved to duck behind the car, as if hoping not to be spotted. The others had moved far enough away from his three friends that they were clearly more afraid of Stiles than of the others getting away. 

Alex looked horrified, Derek looked fucking _broken_ , and Rose was sobbing uncontrollably in the far corner by the wall, clearly terrified out of her mind. 

First things first, he had to free Derek. So he raised one hand, Derek tensing in fear, and he _pulled_ as hard as he could. Maybe a little _too_ hard, because the spike pinning Derek to the ground shot out of him like bullets and smashed through the roof of the barn. Shit, he hadn’t meant to do that. He forced them to come back down so they wouldn’t accidentally impale someone and heard them all hit the roof above them and roll down the sloped sides. 

“You,” Stiles said, pointing at Alex, who flinched. “Take our wolf. If he dies, so do you.” 

Alex slowly got to her feet, and Stiles was glad she was smart enough to pick up Gerard’s gun from where he’d dropped it near her when Stiles had thrown him that way. They’d need the wolfsbane strain to counteract what was happening in Derek’s body. She seemed to debate for a moment, and Stiles wondered if she was thinking of shooting him—he really hoped not, because he would _definitely_ die if she fired on him and he didn’t get a shield up in time—but appeared to think better of it and tucked the weapon into the back of her pants after putting the safety back on. 

She moved slowly, eying Stiles with concern, and bent beside Derek while he struggled onto his hands and knees. He was gritting his teeth against the pain, and he kept looking up at Stiles like his heart had just shattered into a million pieces. 

Stiles could see Alex casting worried glances at Rose, like she was scared Stiles would make her leave the little girl behind. Eventually, she seemed to find her resolve and she held out one shaky hand to Rose.

“Come, my love. Come.” 

It took a few seconds, but Rose eventually crawled over to Alex and hugged her tightly. Alex was still watching Stiles with fear and concern, but she stood while holding the nine year old, using her other hand to grab at Derek’s arm to help haul him up. 

Derek didn’t look like he wanted to go anywhere, staring at Stiles with a mix of terror and horror, but Alex pulled forcefully and he stumbled, almost falling. She managed to help him stay standing, but Stiles could tell the cuffs were really weakening her. She was strong, though. Stronger than anyone Stiles had ever met before, and she managed to help half-drag, half-support Derek out of the barn.

Stiles wasn’t a Werewolf, but he tilted his head slightly to listen until he heard car doors slam. Once he was sure they were gone, he focussed back on the Hunters around him. They all looked terrified. He was pretty sure Jenna had wet herself. 

Good. He _wanted_ them afraid. 

Because now that the others were out, he... kind of had no idea what to do. He wasn’t going to kill them, even though that was what Void would do. But he couldn’t exactly let them go. He wanted them to pay for what they’d done. He was tired of Collectors and Hunters and _bad people_ getting away with things like this. 

Kate had kidnapped and tortured Derek for _years_. 

Gerard had kidnapped and psychologically fucked with Stiles for _months_. 

And now Gerard had threatened to sell Alex and Rose. He’d tried to kill Derek. He was coming _back_ to take Stiles away, lock him up, use him as he pleased. 

Stiles was tired of people getting away with that. He was _mad_ people with money were above the law, because they shouldn’t be. He hated them. _Hated_ them! They should fucking pay!

They should _die_! 

_No,_ Stiles thought viciously, forcing the anger back. _No they shouldn’t. No they fucking shouldn’t. Calm down._

He knew there was one person who could help. Knew there was someone good who’d come and take these men away. And once they were locked up, the FBI or CIA or whoever could come and deal with them. 

“I can do this,” he said aloud, which had some of the Hunters share a confused look. “I can do it, because I can do anything.” 

“What?” Benson asked, sounding more confused than scared. He narrowed his eyes, like he was coming to a conclusion, and Stiles raised his hands just as Benson seemed to figure him out. 

“Freeze,” Stiles ordered. 

He believed.

He believed _so hard_. 

Because he’d never wanted anything more in his life than to actually be worth all the people who’d died for him. He wanted to make a difference. He _wanted_ to get these people behind bars, where they belonged. 

Benson’s mouth froze mid-word. Everything went eerily still and silent. Stiles stared at the Hunters, then down at his hands, and fell to his knees. His legs couldn’t support him anymore, because he’d never felt such intense relief in his entire life before this moment. 

It worked. He’d saved Derek, Alex and Rose. He’d frozen time of his own volition. Fuck, he could do this. He _could_!

He was the fucking _Spark_! 

He stared down at his hands, then clenched them into fists, allowing the magic he’d been using to look Void to dissipate. His vision was much clearer once he’d gotten rid of the black eyes, and he watched his shadows slowly fade and his skin return to its usual pale colour until he was himself again. 

Fuck, he kind of owed Void for this idea. If not for him, he wouldn’t have managed to think up a plan to save the people he cared about. 

His mind immediately went to the owner and he hastily forced himself back to his feet. He didn’t know how far his spell went, but the barn and the house weren’t far from each other. He raced across the open space, hurried up the porch steps, and threw himself into the house. He paused halfway past the kitchen, seeing Hunters crowded around a table where someone was struggling and in the middle of what was clearly a scream of pain, slashes down their front. 

It didn’t look like Werewolf claws, so he figured that was Alex. 

Good. Fucking assholes. He was glad Alex had gotten in a few good swipes. 

He started searching through the house for the owner, feeling fear rising in his throat at the thought that the man might be dead. He was starting to lose his cool when he finally hurried into the basement and felt relief at the sight of an elderly man tied to a chair, looking furious and mid-word, with two Hunters frozen in front of him.

One of them was in the middle of lighting a cigarette, even the flame frozen in place.

Stiles moved around them quickly and bent down, untying the ropes binding the man to the chair. When he was free, he stood and grabbed the guy’s shoulder, giving him one firm shake. He still wasn’t sure how to break the spell on one person, but usually touching them snapped them out of it. 

“—oke in my hou—” The man jumped and cut himself off when he saw Stiles, mouth dropping open.

“Hi. Are you okay?” 

The man stared at him like he was seeing a ghost, then glanced at the Hunters, then back at Stiles. 

“Yeah, they’re not going anywhere. Are you hurt? Can you stand?” 

“You’re the Spark,” he said, awed. “I’ve never... but you look like your mother.” 

Stiles felt his chest clench at the words, but he forced a smile. “Thanks. That—actually, that means a lot. But we need to get you out of here, can you walk?” 

He nodded, but Stiles had to help lever him out of his chair anyway. He _had_ to be eighty, at least, and Stiles was pissed these people thought it was okay to hurt an old man and tie him up in his own basement. Hunters were the fucking _worst_. 

Stiles helped him get upstairs and outside. It looked like Alex had taken the Mustang, which was good. Thank God Derek always had his key on him, Stiles hadn’t actually thought about how they’d get out of there, so he was glad they’d escaped quickly. The Mustang was a fast car, they were probably back in town by now. 

“Wait here,” Stiles ordered, then turned to move back into the house. He started going through a few pockets as carefully as he could so as not to jostle anyone. He eventually found a set of car keys, then went back outside and hit the lock function on the fob to figure out which car it was.

Once it was located, he led the old man to it and got him settled behind the wheel. He hoped he was okay to drive, he looked a little shaken, but relatively unharmed, which was good. 

“Are you sure you’re gonna be all right, son?” the man asked before Stiles could shut the door. 

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. I’m gonna call the Beacon Hills county sheriff’s office. See if we can round these assholes up.” 

“I can wait with you.” 

“Thanks, but just in case the spell breaks, I’d rather you be somewhere safe.” Stiles smiled. “And do me a favour? If you pass a frozen Mustang, can you get out and try and unfreeze it? Usually if I touch someone it does the trick, so maybe climb into the car and touch the driver? I don’t want you touching them and having the car continue to zoom off while your hand is still in the vehicle.” 

He nodded his confirmation and Stiles nodded back before shutting the door. He watched the old man drive off in one of the Hunters’ cars and then let out a slow breath, pulling out his phone. He unlocked it and then scrolled through his contacts until he hit Parrish’s name. 

Parrish answered almost immediately, and Stiles could tell he was in his patrol car because Parrish always played the same corny ass music while he was on duty. The easy way with which he spoke also suggested Alex and Derek’s phone weren’t with them, because they’d have called by now to say Stiles had gone Void. 

Even though he hadn’t. 

_“Hey Stiles, how’s your day going?”_

“You know, the usual. Woke up, made out with Derek, had some breakfast, almost got kidnapped by Gerard Argent. Can you send some cops to my location?”

 _“What?!”_ Parrish demanded, and Stiles was positive he’d slammed on the brakes. _“Stiles, **what**?!” _

“There’s an old farmhouse just past Beacon Hills. Apparently the guy who owns it used to call ahead to the Hales when something dangerous was lurking about? I froze time so the Hunters are all immobile, but there’s a lot of them. You might have to bring the whole force. Can you do it?” 

He heard the sirens cut on halfway through his spiel and was sure Parrish hadn’t even heard the end of it. He was speaking into his radio and asking all units to hurry to an address Stiles assumed was the location he was at. 

_“Are you okay? Are you safe?”_ Parrish demanded once he’d finished his radio. _“Stiles, where’s Derek?”_

“Hopefully with Deaton, or Peter. He-he got shot. With a wolfsbane bullet. Alex is taking him back to town in the Mustang.” He was trying really hard _not_ to think about Derek. Because he was scared he’d lost him. Honestly, if Derek died, he might ask someone to shoot him, because he _knew_ he’d go Void for real. 

Losing Derek wasn’t an option. Not like this. Of old age, sure. It’d suck, but that was just life. Losing him because Gerard had shot him and Stiles had been too slow to stop it? No. He couldn’t lose him. Not like that.

_“I’ll call Deaton. I’m on my way to you now.”_

“Thanks. Oh, and I sent the homeowner off, too. Didn’t want him around while this all went down, so you might pass him on your way down.”

_“I’ll be right there.”_

“I’ll be right here,” Stiles said with a small smile, then hung up. He stared at his phone for a moment, hesitating, then went back to his contacts and stabbed on a name. 

He brought the phone to his ear, and listened to it ring. 

And ring.

And ring some more. 

Derek had evidently made it back, because there was no way Peter would ignore a call from Stiles. Not unless he was busy. Or he was too afraid to answer. 

When it went to voicemail, Stiles let out a slow breath while he listened to the automated voice speak, and then waited for the beep. 

“Hey Peter, it’s Stiles. I’m hoping you’re with Derek. He better be okay, or...” Stiles couldn’t finish the threat. He didn’t know _what_ he’d do. He at least found some solace in the fact that Derek was still mobile, because he’d walked out of the barn, so he hadn’t been paralysed, at least. “Alex is going to tell you I went Void. I’m hoping you can tell based on my voice that it’s not true. I mean, it was almost true. I almost did after Derek got shot, but I didn’t. I stopped it, and I pretended to go Void instead. I just needed you to know because I don’t want there to be mass panic. Please call me to let me know Derek’s okay.” 

He hung up, sat down on the porch steps, and waited. 

* * *

It was very strange watching the Hunters get arrested and taken away. Parrish had shown up first, like he’d promised, and had spent the first ten minutes patting Stiles down for injuries that didn’t exist. Stiles was just glad the magic worked in such a way that people entering the area didn’t freeze up, but those that remained in it were still statues. 

When more cruisers showed up, Tara in one of them and hurrying to Stiles to check on him, the police started to slowly round up the Hunters and shove them into the backs of their vehicles. It was very strange to watch. 

They all looked so _confused_. The ones in the house had been doing whatever they’d been doing one second, and the next they were snapping back to the present with cuffs on their wrists, being led out of the house while someone read them their Miranda rights. The ones in the barn looked just as confused, but still a little terrified until their eyes caught sight of Stiles sitting on the porch steps smiling and waving. 

The cherry on his cake was definitely when Gerard was being led out, followed by Kate. Gerard looked _pissed_ and he was limping, and Stiles was fucking _ecstatic_. Gerard obviously knew Stiles hadn’t gone Void, because if he wasn’t dead, Stiles was still Stiles. He glared hatefully at him the entire time he was being led to a cruiser. 

“This isn’t over, boy.” 

“I think it is,” Parrish snapped, shoving him into the car a little more aggressively than usual. 

Kate bared her teeth at Stiles but said nothing before she was also pushed into a car. She was wearing special magic-resistant cuffs to ensure she didn’t try and use Witch magic, but the officers had ones that _didn’t_ cause scars, because they weren’t fucking animals. 

Stiles rubbed at his wrists where he’d had the cuffs, but they had fully healed, only some dried blood left behind suggesting he’d even had them on. He figured in his excitement using his magic, he’d managed to heal himself up without noticing. 

Once the last Hunter was being taken away, only three cruisers remained, all of them empty. One of them was Parrish’s, and Stiles assumed he was going to be giving him a ride back to town while the tow trucks finished up with the last of the Hunters’ cars. 

“Neat trick,” he said, moving to sit beside Stiles. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

“Did it a few times, but never on purpose until today.”

“Seems like a useful spell.” 

“Yeah.” Stiles was still rubbing at his wrist. “He still hasn’t called.”

Parrish frowned. “Who?” 

“Peter. I called him, but he hasn’t called back yet.” Stiles knew it had been well over an hour since the police had shown up. There’d been a lot to do, and even now there was still one car left, being rigged up by a tow truck. Other officers were milling about taking stock of damages done to the home, and Stiles was sure the owner had made his way to the police station in town to wait out being allowed to return home. 

“I thought it was weird,” Parrish admitted quietly, Stiles glancing at him. “You said Derek got shot by a wolfsbane bullet, but you stayed sitting here on the porch the entire time we rounded everyone up. At first I thought it was to keep the magic in check, but then I realized it was because you were scared.” 

Stiles hated hearing it, but it was the truth. He _was_ scared. Because he knew he’d lose it if he got back to town and Derek wasn’t there anymore. He was afraid to go back until he knew he was all right. But the more time passed, the more nervous he got. Surely Peter would’ve called by now, wouldn’t he? It had been so long, and Derek was a Werewolf. He should’ve been okay by now. 

He knew that wolfsbane could be counteracted by the same strain of wolfsbane, and Deaton was there. Not to mention Chris, who knew exactly how to create an antidote for this kind of poisoning. Derek should’ve been fine ages ago. 

Parrish put one hand on Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing hard. “He’s gonna be okay. No way he’d leave you behind.” 

“Right,” Stiles said, folding his hands together and clenching tightly. Fuck, if Derek wasn’t okay, he didn’t know what he’d do. 

They sat on the porch steps for a while longer until Parrish’s phone rang. He let Stiles go so he could answer it, bringing it to his ear. 

“Hey Tara.” 

Stiles didn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but Parrish looked startled and turned to Stiles. 

“You went Void?” 

Right, he hadn’t told him. “Oh, no. I mean, almost, but I pushed it back. Then I just pretended I went Void to scare the Hunters.” 

Tara must’ve heard him, because Stiles could hear the buzz of her voice on the other end. Parrish smiled, said they’d be right there, and hung up. 

“Peter showed up at the precinct to warn them to try and lock the town down because you’d gone Void. Nobody knew what he was talking about, since half the precinct was out here and saw you sitting on the porch like this, so I don’t think he got your message.” 

Stiles’ heart leapt. “Then Derek—”

“He’s fine. Well, probably distraught, since he thinks you’ve gone dark, but he’ll be fine once we get back and he sees you’re still you.” He slapped Stiles in the back. “Come on, kid. Let’s go home.” 

Stiles smiled and stood, following Parrish to his cruiser. There were still some officers milling about, but he figured they would do what they had to and then head out when they were done. He hoped the damage to the old man’s place wasn’t too extensive. 

The ride back to town was short, and Parrish bypassed the precinct to drive them to the Hale house. The Mustang was parked haphazardly outside, like it had stopped in a rush and there wasn’t time to park it properly. Stiles figured that made sense, Derek had been dying at the time. 

When the cruiser stopped and they stepped out, the front door opened and Stiles felt relief course through him at the sight of Derek. He looked panicked, and still had some blood on his arms and neck, as well as staining his jeans and shirt, but the second his eyes found Stiles, the relief on his face was so intense Stiles physically _felt_ it. 

“Derek.” He rushed around the car and the Werewolf leapt off the porch. 

They met halfway, Stiles running right into him and hugging him tightly, Derek crushing him against his chest and holding on for dear life. 

“I thought I was too late,” Stiles admitted, holding him tightly. “I thought I’d fucked up and you didn’t make it. Fuck, Derek, I was so fucking scared.” 

The squeeze he got in return said the feeling was mutual. Stiles didn’t really stop to think about what truly going Void would’ve done to Derek, but now that he had a second, the panic having been pushed back, he realized that Derek probably would’ve seen it as a failure. Because Derek was nothing if not a martyr. 

Derek pulled back after a few seconds, cupping Stiles’ face and pulling him in for a kiss. It was short, and sweet, and everything Stiles needed for the panic and terror of the day to finally wash away. It left him exhausted, because emotions were fucking killer, but he was just so, _so_ relieved things had turned out differently this time. 

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Parrish patted Stiles’ shoulder while heading for the door. 

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and led him inside and to the kitchen. Most of the pack was there, and Stiles could see how tense they all were. The moment he walked in, it was like a wave of relief. Like they all honestly weren’t sure he was truly still _Stiles_.

It occurred to him the only reason Derek had gone outside first was, not only because Derek _had_ to see him with his own eyes, but because he was the least likely to be injured by Void. It hurt to realize they hadn’t believed he was still him, but he also knew how scary he must’ve looked. His eyes found Alex, and she looked a little ashen, but glad he wasn’t evil. 

Rose was hiding behind her, and Stiles figured that would take a little while longer to repair. 

“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“You faked that well,” she said quietly. “Frighteningly well.” 

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he admitted, albeit begrudgingly. “Void’s always hovering to take over, so I’ve spoken to him a lot.” 

“But you _were_ going Void, weren’t you?” Alex asked quietly. Not an accusation, more of a statement. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, hand tightening in the material of Derek’s shirt at his back. “I almost did. I managed to keep control, but figured the best bet out of that situation was to pretend I _had_. Hunters looked pretty scared.” 

“Everyone was scared,” Alex said. 

“I called Peter,” he insisted, glancing at the man. He was being uncharacteristically quiet, and when Stiles looked his way, he realized he was being analysed. Like Peter wasn’t entirely sure this truly _was_ Stiles. He figured that made sense, it’d take a few days for them to be confident he wasn’t just faking being Stiles. 

“I was a little occupied at the time,” he said, the usual cheer in his voice a little muted. “I was trying to save my Alpha while waiting on Deaton to arrive, and didn’t stop to check my messages when my nephew was in good health. I’d been told we had a Void situation, that was a bit more of a priority.” 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Scott said with a small smile. “We were really worried.” 

“Hale was trying to go back the second the wolfsbane was neutralized,” Jackson said with a scoff, arms crossed over his chest. “Basically tried to fight off four of us to get to you. We didn’t let him, because we didn’t want him to get killed by a monster.”

Stiles winced, but didn’t dwell on it. Everything had worked out in the end, and that was the important thing. 

He turned to Parrish, who was still hanging out by the door. “What’s gonna happen to the Hunters?” 

“We’ll charge them, but not sure we’re gonna be able to make anything stick.” At least he was honest, much as Stiles hated his words. 

“Can we involve the CIA or FBI or something?” Stiles asked. “I mean, the CIA already knows I almost went Void once over Derek, I think they’d find it in their best interest to lock Gerard up so he stops coming at Derek.” 

Parrish was silent for a moment, then said, very quietly, “It might not be him they lock up.” 

Derek snarled and the arm around his shoulders shifted so he was holding Stiles protectively against his chest. It made sense, he supposed. If Stiles was at risk of going Void, taking him out or locking him up was probably the safer option. 

Still... 

“We should at least try,” he insisted, then glanced at Scott. “Your dad works for the FBI, right? And he’s high up in the chain. Surely he has some pull?” 

Scott just shrugged in response, but Peter was the one who looked pensive. Stiles knew the man would think of something, he always seemed to, in the end. And he’d gotten the FBI to Harris’, so he evidently had a way to get things done. Stiles trusted him to have a solution, Peter had never let him down before. 

“I want to go home,” he said to Derek. “Can we go home?” 

Derek kissed his temple in response, but he still looked pissed and snarly at Parrish’s words. People would have to pry Stiles out of his cold, dead hands, apparently. 

Stiles turned to Alex. “Sorry again for scaring you. But thank you for helping Derek.” 

“My pleasure,” she said with a small smile. “We’ll come visit soon. The little one needs a bit of time, but she’ll come ‘round.” 

Stiles nodded once, then turned, Derek still attached to him while they headed out of the Hale house. Nobody followed them, but Stiles figured they were going to stay behind and talk about him. That was fine, he knew he’d scared a lot of people. He kind of hoped they were trying to think up a contingency plan in case he ever _did_ go Void for real. It would be terrible if he did, but Stiles was pretty sure he’d locked Void up. 

As long as people stopped coming at Derek, he should be able to keep his head. 

They climbed back into the Mustang, Derek wincing slightly, and Stiles realized he must still be in pain because of the wolfsbane. It was weird to imagine Derek feeling pain after the fact, because he was a Werewolf, but he hated that he couldn’t steal it from him the way Derek did for Stiles when it was the other way around. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, Derek glancing at him. “I didn’t—my brain just kind of shut down when I saw the gun. If I’d been faster, you wouldn’t have gotten shot and—”

Derek reached out to lightly slap his cheek, like he always did when he wanted Stiles to stop being an idiot. Then he started the car and drove them back to the loft. He didn’t seem happy to find out the door had been left unlocked, but Stiles hoped he forgave him. After all, he’d been a little _panicked_. 

Stiles used magic to ensure the place was empty, even though he knew it would be. Derek still checked the place, making sure the bottom part was free of intruders before making Stiles wait there and checking the loft. When he came back, presumably having found nothing of interest, he motioned for Stiles to come upstairs. 

“Can we stay down here for a second?” Stiles asked. 

Derek paused in his turn, then obediently wandered over to Stiles. He waited for the Werewolf to reach him, then went into his usual train car, Derek following him. Stiles made his way to his nest of blankets, and rearranged them so he could lie down. Derek cocked an eyebrow, but moved to lie beside him when Stiles patted the free spot. 

Stiles shifted into him and hugged him tightly, burying his face in Derek’s neck and closing his eyes. He felt warm hands wrap around him in turn, Derek tightening his grip before releasing it ever so slightly, like he did every night when they went to bed. 

Derek still had blood all over him. His shirt was dirty and torn. He was in pain. Stiles knew all that, but he also knew if he wasn’t absolutely sure Derek was still here, he’d lose his fucking mind. He needed to hold him, just for a few minutes. Just for a little while. Until his heart stopped pounding quite so hard in his chest. 

Stiles closed his eyes, breathing Derek in, and couldn’t stop himself from trembling at the thought of how close he’d come to losing him. 

Derek kissed his temple, rubbed his stubble against Stiles’ skin, and held on. 

It took almost two hours before Stiles managed to stop shaking. 

* * *

Peter was the last person in the pack to truly believe Stiles was _Stiles_ , and it took exactly eight days and fourteen hours. He was glad when Peter finally believed it, because he’d kind of missed being able to talk to him. Peter was suspicious of everything he said, and made him feel so uncomfortable and unwelcome that he’d stopped visiting. 

Eventually, he seemed to realize Void wasn’t pretending to be Stiles, and he started acting normal again. 

It was also around that time that the Hunters who’d been arrested had finally been, well, _arrested_. Fully in the system, no buying their way out of prison, no bail, nothing. The Argents’ assets were seized, Gerard was shipped off to some remote location as someone the government saw as a tangible threat, and he heard even those left behind at the Argent estate—including that bitch Jennifer—had been rounded up and arrested. 

Stiles knew his statement, as well as Alex’s, had helped things along, but it was Chris’ testimony that had tipped the scales. This one wasn’t even going to trial, which Stiles was grateful for, because he didn’t want to have to re-live everything he’d gone through. One of the government agencies—he still didn’t know which one, but felt inclined to believe it was the FBI—had shown up on the second day, done some digging, spoken to a few people, and now they were leaving with the Hunters in chains. 

Honestly, Stiles would never admit it to anyone, but when he’d found out, he’d gone to take a shower so he could cry about it without anyone knowing. Because he’d been so sure it would never stop, that Gerard would get out and keep coming for him, and he’d never be able to live his life in peace. To know it was _over_ , that he’d _won_ , was such a relief he couldn’t help the quiet sobs escaping him while he crouched under the spray and let the water beat down on him. 

The only downside to all of this was honestly that Kate had basically been told she could receive a reduced sentence if she broke her curse on Derek. Stiles figured that was something Peter had orchestrated—somehow... the guy was crazy good at that sort of thing—but she’d admitted she didn’t know how to break it. At this point, the only option was for what she’d forced into Derek to come true. He had to say the words, and mean them.

Stiles cried about that in the shower, too. Because he hated that even when they won, they still lost. 

When he exited, he knew everyone present hadn’t missed why he was in there, but they actually kept their comments to themselves. He was grateful and just pressed himself into Derek’s side while they chatted and tried to return to some semblance of normal. 

Peter and Jackson ended up leaving around dinner time, inviting Derek and Stiles to come back with them, but Stiles really needed to be alone for a while. Well, alone with Derek, because he didn’t want to be _truly_ alone. Just... away from other people. 

As soon as the last lock snapped into place behind them, Derek turned to cock an eyebrow at Stiles and he shrugged. 

“Just wanted some space, I guess. It’s been a weird few days.” He stared down at his hands, still thinking about everything he’d accomplished. He hadn’t used any magic since that day, but he knew he wasn’t the same anymore. He knew he was finally becoming a real Spark. 

It was as thrilling as it was terrifying. 

Derek knocked lightly on the table to get his attention back, then motioned the door in inquiry. Stiles shrugged, and figured a walk or a drive would do him some good, so he went to find some shoes and pulled them on. They headed down the stairs together and outside, Derek sweeping the area only briefly before allowing Stiles to leave the building. 

He’d been a little less suffocating the past few days, probably because he could tell Stiles had changed. It was crazy how different he felt now that he fully believed he could truly do anything. Before, he’d heard about it, been _told_ he could do anything, but it hadn’t ever really stuck. Now, he knew for certain that he could. 

He’d pretended to go Void. He’d frozen an area of his own volition. He’d worn and broken cuffs without feeling anything but a slight chill. He was different than he was a year ago, hell even a _month_ ago. He was finally turning into what everyone thought he was, and he knew that he had nothing to be afraid of, now. 

Nobody could touch him, and that was an amazing feeling. 

Stiles didn’t know what Derek’s plans were, but when they got into the car, he drove them to the store. He followed him inside and watched Derek grab a shopping cart before making his way through specific aisles. Derek grabbed a whole bunch of chips, some salsa and guacamole, a few cookies, and an entire chocolate cake. He motioned for Stiles to choose some chocolate bars and candy, and once there was literally not a single healthy thing in their half-full cart, Derek headed for the cashier. 

The girl ringing them through looked a little concerned, but she didn’t say anything while she loaded everything into bags and motioned for Derek to swipe his credit card. They carried their haul back to the car and Derek drove them back to the loft. 

Once they were back inside, he dumped everything on the coffee table in front of the television barring the cake, which he set down more carefully. There was so much junk that he had to put four of the chip bags and some cookies on the floor. 

He waved for Stiles to sit down while he went to grab forks for the cake and some glasses for their pop, and set those down by the edge of the couch on the floor. Then he went to the movies, pulled one off the shelf, and bent down in front of the television to pop it into the Blu-Ray player. Once everything was ready, Stiles arched an eyebrow at him when he came back to sit beside him, pulling the blanket they had off the back of the couch and throwing it over Stiles. 

“What’s going on?” he asked uncertainly. 

Derek just offered him a small smile, kissed his forehead, then dragged him into his side, one arm around his shoulders. He grabbed the television remote and turned it on, the screen already playing some trailers from the DVD. He switched remotes to get to the main menu and Stiles perked up when he realized it was _Star Wars_. 

When the movie started playing, the scrolling text beginning to appear on the screen, Derek reached down for one of the bags of chips with one hand and managed to get it open without having to use the one over Stiles’ shoulders. He held it out to him and Stiles laughed before taking a few chips and putting them into his mouth two at a time. Derek dropped the bag in his lap so he could reach in for his own handful. 

“You know, this is really unhealthy,” he teased. “I’m not like you, this will all go to fat instead of muscle.” 

Derek shrugged in a very clear, “I don’t care if you’re fat.” 

“Sap.” Stiles nudged him lightly, then reached forward for the cake. He didn’t know _why_ Derek had bought a whole fucking cake, but it was there, and he was going to eat it. 

Derek let him go so he could bend down to grab the forks, handing one over while Stiles worked on getting the plastic lid off the container. Once the cake was free, he and Derek both dug their forks into it and took a bite. 

It was good, if a little too rich for his tastes, but by God, he was owed this cake after all the shit he’d been through.

Stiles figured that was where Derek was coming from, in this case. He knew Stiles had had a rough go lately, that he wasn’t feeling his best, and this was his way of saying it was okay to _not_ be okay. And he would be there for him until he _was_ okay again. 

Derek really _was_ the best in every way. Best boyfriend, best friend, best protector, best listener. Stiles loved him. 

“Hey,” he said, making Derek turn to him. Stiles reached out to smear frosting on Derek’s nose, the Werewolf leaning back and baring his teeth in fake annoyance before wiping it off with his free hand. “I love you.” 

Derek paused then, a small smile on his face while he stared at Stiles’ earnest expression. Then he reached out, smeared his own dollop of frosting onto Stiles’ cheek, proceeded to lick it off like a fucking _animal_ , and then kissed his forehead. 

“I love you, too,” his actions said, and Stiles felt like everything truly _would_ be okay one day soon. 

Things would go back to normal soon, and they could move forward, just like they always did.

Stiles knew he could do anything with Derek beside him, and the Alpha had made it explicitly clear he wasn’t going anywhere. 

That, more than anything, was the most comforting feeling in the world. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- During one of the Collector raids, the dude in charge has Jackson brought to his room. Nothing happens, because Jackson noped the fuck out real quick, but it is there so I thought I'd mention it in case someone needs the warning.  
> \- Derek is badly injured and tortured in this chapter. It's not explicit, Stiles comes in after the fact and sees what happened to him after it's over, though he is there for when Derek gets shot :(
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> Star Wars (c) George Lucas


	21. Compromises

“I’m sorry, you wanna what?” Stiles asked, the book in his hands drooping slightly while he squinted up at Boyd and Isaac. 

They’d invited themselves over without warning and had shooed Derek out to spend time with Cora. Apparently Cora was not made aware of this and sent a rather scathing text to Isaac since she’d been planning on going out with Lydia. 

It was always fun watching Werewolves go super pale and look terrified. 

“We want to go camping.” 

“Why, because you hate me? It’s _October_ ,” Stiles stressed, eyebrows raised. “You know, when it gets cold outside and those of us who _aren’t_ Werewolves _freeze to death_?” 

“You can snuggle with Derek,” Isaac argued. 

“That hardly works _inside_ , you think it’ll work _outside_? Besides, aren’t I still technically on lock-down?” 

“No.” Boyd said it so matter-of-fact that it gave Stiles pause. 

Realistically, he knew he’d never been on lock-down, but especially lately, it was clear nobody worried about him anymore. Ever since he’d taken out Gerard and his Hunters, everyone seemed to think he was good to go now. To be fair, they weren’t wrong, Stiles was so extra with his magic now that he felt like the main character of a superhero comic. 

But it was so ingrained after over two years that it was weird to imagine that he was allowed to just leave the loft whenever he wanted and Derek wouldn’t have an aneurism. 

It was nice, obviously. But still kind of weird. 

“Why do you need me to go camping anyway?” Stiles asked, jumping tracks since he honestly didn’t know why they were coming to _him_ for this. “Can’t you all go on your own? Bond as wolves, or whatever?” 

“That’s kind of the problem,” Boyd said, moving further into the train car and tripping. He cursed to himself, grabbing hold of one of the seats, and carefully continued onward until he was across from Stiles in his little blanket fort. “We’ve been asking Derek to come with us for months now, but he won’t. Not without you. Because you’re pack, and he won’t go out without the whole pack.”

“Well, the _original_ pack, since it’s getting kind of big,” Isaac countered. “Some of the newbs are coming, but mostly just our regulars. Jackson, Alex, the twins—” 

“Point is,” Boyd continued before Isaac could go on for too long. “You can come now. You’re safe.”

“More or less,” Isaac cut in again. Boyd ignored him and continued. 

“You can actually come. We just want to have a good time as a pack with our Alpha.” 

Ugh, they were pulling the guilt trip. Boyd was laying it on thick so Stiles would feel guilty about not wanting to go and agree. He felt it was dumb that he was the one holding Derek back, because Derek was a big boy. He could do whatever he wanted, including go out and frolic through the forest with his buddies. Stiles didn’t have to be there, he could support them from the comfort of the loft, snuggled up warmly under a blanket with the television on. 

“He hasn’t done a full moon run with us since he became the Alpha,” Boyd said after another brief silence. 

That honestly gave Stiles pause. “What?” 

“Laura used to do them with us whenever she could. When she came back to visit and it was the full moon, we’d go out as a pack. After her death, when Derek became Alpha, he was too focussed on you to come back and visit. Not that he did much before then since his curse, but especially after he became Alpha. And then when you came back with him, he hasn’t left your side as much as he can help it. He won’t come out with us, because he doesn’t want to leave you behind.” 

That seemed crazy. That Derek had never gone out with the pack during a full moon. He knew that it affected Derek, the same way it affected all the Weres. Their desire to run, to be together, to have fun. He’d never really thought about how much Derek might _want_ to go, but hadn’t because of him. 

Stiles had seen him looking out the window on nights of the full moon. Derek got restless, usually shifted around a lot in bed, like he had extra energy he was trying to shake off but couldn’t. 

Still, he never went. And he never asked to go. Honestly, Stiles assumed he didn’t _want_ to go, but maybe it was like Boyd said. Actually, it was most likely like Boyd said, because Derek was an over-protective asshole who always did whatever he thought Stiles wanted and never what _he_ wanted. 

Like the whole sex thing on his birthday. Derek had been crossing one of his own lines because he thought Stiles wanted that. So really, was it so strange to realize that Derek was an idiot who couldn’t just ask for something? 

“If I lose _any_ fingers or toes,” Stiles snapped, pointing a finger at Boyd threateningly, “I’m taking yours.” 

Boyd grinned so huge it was actually a little scary. “Deal. I’ll let the others know. We’ll get the campsite set up and meet there at dusk.” 

Stiles grunted, a little annoyed at being backed into a corner, but if this was something Derek wanted, well, Derek was going to get it. Because Derek deserved everything so Stiles could suck it up and lose a few toes—though hopefully not. 

But if Derek came home and was mad about the whole thing, Stiles was going to murder Boyd and then call it all off. 

The two stayed for a while longer to chat and give Stiles some details about the evening. Apparently the whole camping thing was a Laura staple, given the wolves usually ran in the Preserve. She’d started the camping because of the humans, since they didn’t feel like going out running all night but she didn’t want to exclude them, so they always set up a campsite near the middle of the Preserve with tents and sleeping bags, and then the wolves would take off while the humans hung out together. 

Someone would always come back to check in on them, but most of the time the wolves were out all night and the humans just chatted and ate around a campfire. Sometimes they would retreat to the tents and sleep, and sometimes they wouldn’t. 

When Stiles had pointed out that there weren’t any humans in their pack, Isaac had rolled his eyes and clarified that they meant non-Weres. So people like Kira and Lydia and Parrish. Apparently Liam had also invited Mason, Parrish had extended the invite to Tara—who had to decline since she was working—and Scott had hesitantly asked if Allison could come. Verdict was still out on that one, but Stiles figured it would be up to Derek.

Alex and Rose, along with the twins, were also going to be there, so it sounded like it was going to be a huge party. While he’d have preferred a warmer time of year, he had to admit it was probably going to be a blast and he shouldn’t be so salty about it. 

Honestly, a part of him felt like he was just being difficult for the sake of being difficult, because even if the others had left and not pushed, once Derek got home, Stiles probably would’ve asked if he wanted to go and would’ve sucked it up and gone if the answer was yes. 

After figuring out the logistics of the evening, and Boyd and Isaac promising to buy a few things Stiles wanted for the campfire, he saw them both out and then banged his head on the door with a groan before heading up to the loft. He figured he could bring some of the books he’d been reading without Derek around, continue his work on curses and whatnot. He also started hunting for some warm, comfortable clothes and ended up stealing one of Derek’s unused sweaters. Seriously, the guy never got cold, it was annoying. 

He was in the process of trying to shove his favourite blanket into the duffel he used to use when they went to Wyoming for training when the loft door slid open, startling him badly enough the light above him exploded. He sometimes felt like he should fix the barrier around the loft, because it was designed only for threats, and more often than not, he found himself getting startled by uninvited guests.

Usually Jackson. 

Derek raised his eyebrows at him and Stiles just scowled, carefully combing through his hair to try and get rid of whatever bits of glass might have fallen onto his scalp. Great, if he cut open his head because his boyfriend had startled him, Melissa was going to laugh herself unconscious. 

“Asshole. Can’t you make more noise?” 

The look he got in response told him to pay more attention and Derek slid into the loft, shutting the door behind him. He was eying the duffel with apprehension, looking almost uncomfortable to ask. 

“I’m moving out. I don’t like living with you anymore, your feet stink, you never change the toilet paper roll and you police my sugar intake.” 

Derek rolled his eyes, but seemed to relax a little when the joke made it clear he was over-thinking things. He sat on the edge of the couch beside where Stiles was still struggling to get the duffel closed. It usually held clothes, not a giant blanket. 

Reaching out one hand, Derek tugged lightly at the sleeve of the sweater Stiles was wearing in a, “Is this mine?” way. 

“Yeah,” Stiles grunted, finally getting the zipper shut and fist pumping once in triumph. “It’s a bit bigger than my hoodies, so I figured it would keep me warmer. I mean, it probably won’t, but knowing I’m wearing something that belongs to you might trick my brain into thinking you’re hugging me and keep the chill out.” 

Derek gave him a weird look, and tugged on the sleeve again, then glanced at the bag and raised his eyebrows. 

“We’re going camping.” Stiles tried not to make it sound like a punishment, but given the look on Derek’s face, he wasn’t sure he succeeded. “Well, no. I’m apparently going camping. You’re going to run through the woods naked howling at the moon, or whatever it is your kind do when it’s a full moon. I’m fine with the naked bit though, just so we’re clear.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Derek rolled his eyes. 

When he reached out to tug on the duffel, eyes locked on Stiles, it took him a second to realize what he was asking. He may have been good at reading Derek, but he wasn’t exactly a mind-reader, so sometimes he got it wrong. 

“I’m anticipating being cold, I figured a blanket would help.” 

Derek let out a frustrated grunt, suggesting that wasn’t what he was asking. He looked around for the dictionary, then stood to go and find it, bringing it back to the couch and flipping through it. Stiles looked over when he stopped on the first word, and then figured out the question when he pointed out the second. 

“I mean, I’m not going to say I _like_ camping, but you’re a Werewolf, and being out with your pack on the full moon is a thing you guys do. I’ll survive. If I’m gonna date you, we need to have some give and take. This is important to you, and Boyd says you’ve never done it with the pack since you became Alpha. That’s kind of huge, Derek, why didn’t you say anything?” 

Derek just shrugged, closing the dictionary, trying to make like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it didn’t bother him. But it was clear he’d wanted to, and just hadn’t brought it up. 

Stiles was fucking _thrilled_ it was _his_ turn to flick Derek in the forehead, which he did. It hurt his finger more than it probably hurt Derek, but whatever. He still got to flick him. 

“We are not in a one-sided relationship here. If you want something, you need to say so. Relationships are about compromise. I might hate the outdoors and the cold, but if it makes you happy, it makes me happy. So if you want to do this tonight, we are going. I’ve already come to terms with the potential loss of various appendages, so I’m all set for the night.” 

The look he got suggested Derek thought he was pathetic. Which was rude, if not entirely on point. The Werewolf stood up and headed to the bookshelf, pulling a tome off the top shelf and heading back towards Stiles while flipping through it. He stopped on a page while taking a seat again and turned it to face Stiles. 

“‘Liquefying someone’s insides as a means of torture,’” Stiles read out slowly, glancing up at Derek. “Uh, I mean, I love you and all that, but I’m not really into the whole boiling someone alive from the inside out.” 

Derek’s eye roll took his whole head with it this time. He smacked Stiles across the back of the head, then motioned the bottom of the spell. 

Rubbing at the injury, Stiles read the bottom part and realized it was a lesser version of the spell itself. The purpose of the spell was to cause discomfort and torture—this was one of the books Stiles _hadn’t_ read, though apparently Derek had—but it could also double as a means to stave off hypothermia. Using the spell at its lowest setting would keep the receiver warm in times of great cold. 

“Huh.” He grabbed the tome and pulled it onto his lap, reading through the directions a few times. He was a lot more confident with his magic than he was before, so he knew he could do it as long as he _believed_ he could. He just wanted to make sure he kept his eyes away from the torture half of the spell so he didn’t accidentally liquify himself. “Should be do-able. Thanks.” 

Derek kissed his temple in a, “You’re welcome,” way and then stood. He tapped at his wrist, clearly asking when they were heading out, and Stiles told him they were meeting the others at dusk. Derek cocked his head, as if in thought, then motioned the bathroom and disappeared inside. The shower cut on a few seconds later. 

All the books he could’ve been reading were at the bottom of the duffel, so Stiles just turned on the TV and watched the tail-end of a random home renovation show. Another episode started up right afterwards, so he just zoned out while it played until Derek came back out. They finished up that episode, then Derek turned the TV off and motioned Stiles off the couch. 

“It’s still early,” he whined. “Why do you hate me?” 

Derek just rolled his eyes and grabbed his wrist, pulling him off the couch while he whined like a child. Derek grabbed his duffel and Stiles obediently followed him out of the loft, locking up behind himself.

Heading down the stairs and outside, Stiles pouted when he realized it was already cold and it wasn’t even four yet. He was going to have to get that spell started sooner rather than later. Hopefully it would help keep him warm, or he was going to be miserable every full moon that happened during winter. 

When they got into the car and started driving, it occurred to Stiles that the Allison verdict was still out and he turned to Derek. 

“Hey, so apparently Kira, Parrish and Lydia are the staples at the campsite. Mason is going to be coming, but I was wondering if Allison could come out, too.” 

Derek glanced at him, scowling a little. Despite the fact that Chris and Allison had shown time and again that they were good people, Stiles knew it was still hard for Derek to look past the Argent name. He’d let them stay, he trusted them not to stab him in the back, and he was polite when they passed one another on the street. That was enough for him. The fact that he wasn’t vetoing Scott’s ability to date her was also another compromise he’d made about the whole thing.

Apparently, having her in the pack was different. 

“It’s totally fine if the answer’s no,” Stiles insisted, raising both hands. “I just wanted to ask. She doesn’t—I mean, it hasn’t been easy for her. She’s making friends, but slowly. Most of the pack doesn’t trust her because you don’t. It’s not exactly the easiest environment to make friends in.” 

Derek grunted, eyes on the road, clearly conceding his point. Still, he didn’t say she could come, so Stiles decided to just drop it. It wasn’t his place to push, and forcing them into being friends was not going to do anyone _any_ favours. 

They headed out of town, Stiles feeling the barrier pass over them like a warm blanket. It really felt nice when he was in a good mood, but it was also weird that it changed depending on how he was feeling. He was just glad it was working so well, because so far, nothing malicious had entered their territory. 

A few Weres had tried to sneak in last weekend, but had been met with the full might of the Hale pack less than a mile into town. They’d turned tail and run pretty quickly, which was comforting, because it meant people knew how scary this pack was.

Which it was. Terrifying. Stiles loved it, they were all such big marshmallows but outsiders were scared of them like they were going to tear people’s heads off. Hilarious. 

When they pulled into the lot of what looked like a Spirit Halloween costume store, Stiles straightened and his eyes widened because, holy shit, it was _October_! He’d forgotten about Halloween! 

“Oh my God, are we having another party at Peter’s?” he demanded, turning to Derek and grabbing his arm to shake him. “Are we? _Are we_?” 

Derek pretended to look annoyed, but Stiles saw the corners of his lips quirking upwards. He cheered and hurriedly kicked open his door, which earned him a growl and snapped teeth, Derek telling him not to ruin his car. 

“Whatever, if I wreck it, you’ll just have to buy another Camaro.” He winked at him over the top of the Mustang, shutting his door. “How come you didn’t get another one anyway? It’s not like they’re hard to get. Not like my Jeep. How come you didn’t just buy another one?” 

Derek’s shrug was hard to decipher, which meant Stiles had to speculate while they headed into the store and Derek had to tap on his arm in yes and no. The closest he got was that Derek hadn’t had time to look into buying another Camaro because Stiles was missing and he just needed a car so he’d bought the closest thing he could find to his beloved vehicle which was a jet black Mustang. 

Apparently the Camaro was in Peter’s garage under a tarp, banged up to shit from the fall, but still something they were hoping could potentially be fixed. Stiles thought it must be fixable, given the Camaro hadn’t been in great shape after its encounter with that fence over two years ago, and it’d somehow survived that. 

He started paying attention to the costumes while they wandered around after that. Derek didn’t seem to like any of them, but Stiles knew he was doing this for him so he tried not to go for anything that would have Derek miserable. 

He _did_ jokingly pick up a little red riding hood costume for himself and asked if Derek would be his big bad wolf. He’d asked the same thing last time, but they hadn’t been dating then. 

Derek turned to head for the exit at those words and Stiles had to drag him back to the more reasonable costumes. 

“Oh, what about this?” Stiles asked, moving over to the medieval section and pointing out a knight’s outfit. It wasn’t the full armour set, something a little more flattering, but still clearly a high born of some kind. “You can be my king. I mean, you basically already are. Oh!” He slapped Derek in the arm. “What if you were King Arthur? I can be your Merlin! I mean, they were basically a thing, right? It’s why Arthur didn’t get pissed when Lancelot ran off with Guinevere!” 

Derek’s look said, “I don’t think that’s exactly how that story played out,” but Stiles ignored him and started looking through the costumes for something Merlin-like. 

Thankfully, Derek didn’t seem entirely opposed to being King Arthur and started looking through the props for a sword and a crown, which Stiles was delighted about. He wasn’t exactly happy with the closest he could find for a Merlin costume, but he’d survive, and he was just excited Derek was playing along. It was obvious Derek was more of a Christmas person, but he was trying for Stiles so that was the important thing. 

They paid at the counter and then headed back to the car. By then, it was already starting to get a little late in the day, so Derek drove them back into town and headed for the store. There probably wasn’t much for him to get since Isaac and Boyd had already said they’d be bringing some food, but given this was Werewolves, it made sense Derek was thinking more food would be a good idea. 

Wandering through the aisles, Stiles dumped various items into the cart as they passed them. He tried to sneak in a bunch of cookies, but Derek just put them back. Stiles pouted about it until Derek tossed a few s’mores kits into it, and that perked him right back up. 

The chip aisle was the best, because they grabbed almost one of everything, including some cheddar-flavoured goldfish, which may be childish, but by God those things were fucking amazing! 

“Should we grab an early dinner before heading out?” Stiles asked, honestly unsure how the night was going to go. “Or do we usually just munch the whole time we’re out there?” 

Derek seemed to think about it, and shrugged in response, which Stiles interpreted as grabbing a light dinner. And Stiles meant light, he was thinking just a sandwich or something from the coffeeshop next door. He didn’t want to overeat and then get sick tonight. 

While they were standing in line at the counter, waiting to check out with all their food, Derek let out a loud, annoyed sigh and then nudged Stiles. He turned to him, cocking an eyebrow, and Derek just sighed again.

Stiles perked up. “Cookies?” 

Derek’s scowl said, “No, not the cookies, moron.” He deflated, but again, s’mores, so he couldn’t be _too_ upset. 

They were one person away from the till when he clued in. “Oh,” he said, startled. “Allison. She can come?” 

Derek didn’t look happy about it, but the third annoyed sigh that escaped him was answer enough. Stiles beamed and hugged him sideways, then quickly pulled out his phone to text Scott. 

**[Stiles]**  
derek says allison can come!!!!!!!  
 **[Stiles]**  
isaac and boyd said you asked but verdict was still out

 **[Scott]**  
OMFG REALLY?!   
**[Scott]**  
ur the BEST!   
**[Scott]**  
ill let her kno n pick her up l8r :) 

**[Stiles]**  
your texting makes me weep  
 **[Stiles]**  
see you in a bit

Stiles put his phone away and hugged Derek sideways again, the Werewolf grunting and clearly not thrilled with the idea, but he was trying. 

That was what Stiles liked the most about Derek. No matter what, he always _tried_. 

* * *

“That’s _crazy_ ,” Stiles insisted, shifting under his blanket and letting one hand poke out to keep hold of the stick he had over the fire. This one currently sported a sausage, because if he had one more s’mores, he was probably going to barf and that would suck. 

“I know, right?” Kira grinned. “He was such a tiny little thing, it was so adorable.” 

“Hey now, he’s _still_ adorable,” Stiles countered, brandishing his sausage at Kira. “He’s just not a tiny little thing anymore.” 

“You would know,” Mason teased with a grin. 

“Mason!” Stiles turned to give him a look. “Children!” He jerked his head emphatically beside him, where Rose was curled up against his side under the blanket, head barely poking out from under it and her eyes flagging. It was almost three in the morning, and she was only nine, so Stiles wasn’t surprised she was starting to pass out. The fact that she’d lasted this long was impressive, in his opinion. 

“She’s basically asleep, and she doesn’t know what we’re talking about,” Mason insisted, but he did look a little sheepish. 

“How _are_ things with you and Derek anyway?” Kira asked, bringing her own stick closer and poking at her marshmallow before deciding it wasn’t burned enough for her liking and shoving it back into the flames. Kira apparently liked her marshmallows raw or on fire, nowhere in between. 

“They’re good.” Stiles let a dopey smile form on his face, rearranging himself slightly when Rose snuggled closer into his side so that he could keep the blanket mostly closed around them. “It’s nice, you know, having someone. I feel like we fit, so it’s comforting to be with someone who gets me.” 

“I think he’s the lucky one in this relationship,” Lydia informed him, buried under multiple layers of blankets. Stiles thought she was exaggerating a little bit, but he kept forgetting that he’d attempted the heat spell before leaving the coffeeshop and had been comfortable with just the one blanket all night. Besides, there was also the fire, so he was good. He hoped Rose was too, but considering she was passing out, she was probably fine. 

“I’m just glad things worked out,” Kira admitted with a small laugh. “When Jackson kissed you and you guys pretended everything was normal, we were talking about planning an intervention.” 

“Jackson kissed Stiles?” Allison asked incredulously, a handful of chips halfway to her mouth. 

“Oh yeah, it was amazing,” Kira insisted with a laugh, and proceeded to recount the story as if she were actually there. 

Stiles just listened and laughed, especially when Allison’s responses got more and more incredulous the more time passed. It was actually crazy to realize that they’d only gotten together in February. It hadn’t been that long, in the grand scheme of things, but he was so glad they’d both figured their shit out. He’d have been pining so hard right now. 

He jumped slightly when Rose shifted again, burying herself under the covers fully and resting her head on Stiles’ lap, lying on her side. They’d spread out a few of the sleeping bags to sit on, so she at least wasn’t lying down on a log or the hard ground or anything, but he hoped she was comfortable. He ran his hand up and down her side lightly, trying to lull her into sleep, and couldn’t help the relief that hit him at the realization that she was sleeping with her head in his lap. 

His faking going Void had scared a lot of people, mostly those who’d been present. Rose most of all, since she was just a child, and had seen Stiles throw two people around like rag dolls. It had taken a while for her to get used to him again, and a part of him had worried she never would. She’d still been a little hesitant when she’d shown up that evening, but Stiles was the one she knew best out of the ‘humans’ around the campfire, so she’d migrated towards him. He’d offered to share his blanket, and after a bit of coaxing from Alex, she finally agreed. 

Alex stayed behind with them for a while until she was sure Rose was okay, and then went to join the wolves. She wasn’t a Werewolf herself, but being a Metamorph meant she liked to run as much as they did. Kira and Parrish joined them sometimes, but usually they stayed back with Lydia. She used to be the only mostly human person in the pack, but that had changed over the past few years. Kira and Parrish _could_ go, but they both insisted the human campfire stories and food were better and stuck around. 

It was actually pretty fun. Stiles hadn’t been sure how he’d feel about it, but it was entertaining. He got to hear a lot of stories from the others, and tell a few himself. He also liked that they were all getting to know each other better, which was doing wonders for Allison. She and Lydia were already good friends, but Kira had started speaking to her a bit more lately and their conversations so far tonight were just reinforcing that they had similar taste and they’d already made plans to hang out again in the coming days. 

Stiles was glad, because Allison really _was_ great. She just needed to be given a chance, which he knew was hard given her background, but as long as everyone tried, that was all he could ask for. 

Kira was in the middle of regaling them with more adorable baby Derek stories—seriously, Stiles would never tire of hearing them—when there was a low growl to their left and a branch snapped. Allison had her crossbow up and fired instantly, years of training making her react before thinking things through. 

Parrish caught the arrow before it could fly into the trees and Lydia slammed down on Stiles’ hand when he raised it to react similarly to Allison, electricity already crackling between his fingers. 

“It’s just Derek,” Kira insisted, Allison jerking to her feet and backing away. 

Sure enough, there were two red pinpricks in the darkness, moving slowly towards them. But they looked... low. 

“That’s not Derek,” Allison insisted, her voice tight. 

“It’s Derek,” Lydia promised, turning to look at Stiles. “Trust me. It’s Derek.” 

“Holy shit,” Mason hissed, shifting a bit closer to Kira and away from the large mass of shadow slowly easing out of the trees. 

A few of the other Werewolves had dropped in to make sure their team-almost-human-but-not-quite were all doing well, but Derek hadn’t come by once all night. Stiles figured he was having too much fun, and he didn’t begrudge him that enjoyment, so he hadn’t expected him to come by at all until morning. 

But now he was watching a jet black wolf the size of a small horse slink out of the shadows, red eyes narrowed at Allison before settling on Stiles. The wolf moved slowly, and Stiles watched it while tightening his hand on Rose’s shoulder protectively. She was still sleeping, but he was going to teleport her somewhere else if the others were wrong and this was a bad wolf they just _thought_ was Derek. 

Seriously. Since when could Derek turn into a fucking _wolf_? Wasn’t that a Metamorph thing? Alex had been turning into various animals all night, though she always went human before coming back to camp, wrapped in a towel to check in on them before heading back out. He didn’t know Werewolves could turn into animals, too. 

“Lyds,” Stiles said nervously, the wolf moving along slowly until it was almost right behind him. 

“It’s Derek,” she insisted again, almost impatiently. “Don’t you think he’d have attacked you by now if it wasn’t?” 

As if to prove the point, the wolf stopped right beside Stiles, sat down, and then bonked his nose against Stiles’ forehead the same way Derek usually flicked him. 

Stiles started slightly, then scowled and reached up with his free hand to wipe at his skin. “That’s gross. You know you just put snot all over my forehead, right? _And_ you made me drop my sausage.” He motioned into the fire where his almost done sausage was now sitting and burning. 

No saving that. 

Derek’s eye roll said, “Cry me a river.” Man, even as a wolf, Stiles could still read him like a book. Probably because he had so much practice at it while he was human. 

“I am so sorry,” Allison said, looking pale and horrified. “I thought—I am so, so sorry. It was an accident.” She turned to Parrish. “ _Thank_ you!” 

“Honestly, I was expecting a violent reaction,” Parrish said, offering her a small smile and motioning for her to sit while spearing a marshmallow on the end of the arrow he’d caught. “We should’ve warned you, but as soon as he growled, I knew you would both react badly.” 

“We forgot you don’t know about the Hales,” Lydia said, looking relieved no one had gotten hurt. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Allison insisted to Derek again. 

He just let out a gruff exhale, and Stiles was glad that he was basically telling her not to worry about it. It was clear she hadn’t been aiming to hurt him on purpose, she’d been startled, same as Stiles. It was hard to counter-act years of instinct. 

“To be fair, you scared us.” Stiles tugged lightly on one of the wolf’s ears, and earned a snap of teeth. He grinned, knowing Derek would never actually bite him, and tugged his ear again. That got him an annoyed look. “You’re a cute little thing, aren’t you?” 

“I wouldn’t exactly call him little,” Mason insisted quietly, still trying to inch closer to Kira for protection. “I didn’t know Werewolves could turn into real wolves.” 

“They can’t,” Lydia said, reaching past Stiles to pet Derek’s head. He didn’t look impressed with being treated like a dog, but he tolerated it. “The Hales are special. Everyone in the Hale line can turn into wolves, though it comes easier to the Alpha. Peter says he’s too old to do it anymore, and Cora says it’s too hard. Derek never attempted it in the past when he was still a Beta, and this is the first time he’s been out with us since he became Alpha. Guessing he wanted to give it a shot. I take it everything went well, then?” 

Derek huffed loudly, then ducked his head out from under Lydia’s hand, seemingly having had enough with being treated like a dog. He moved around in front of Stiles and lay down, resting his chin on Stiles’ knee and being mindful of where Rose’s head was. 

“Why the growl of doom on your way in?” Stiles demanded, tugging his ear again. It was so cute and soft, he loved it. Derek as a wolf was fucking adorable, he kind of wanted to bury his face in his fur. 

“It’s what they all do,” Kira said. “When they’re wolves, they growl before showing up to make sure we know they’re coming so we don’t attack them. I guess that backfired this time.” 

“We’ll know for next time,” Stiles insisted, glancing at Allison. “Right?” 

“Yeah,” she said in a low voice, sounding like she felt she might not get an invite next time. She put the crossbow down a bit further away from herself and then took a seat once more, looking a little dejected. 

“It’s okay,” Parrish insisted, offering her a friendly smile. “Honest. The first time Laura came out as a wolf, I almost set her on fire.” 

Kira burst into laughter at that and Lydia let out a small, aggrieved sigh. Rose let out a noise of distress in Stiles’ lap at the sound, but he just went back to rubbing her arm lightly and she settled once more. Her tiredness was overpowering the loud voices around her. 

“I forgot about that!” Kira insisted. “But you really did, didn’t you? Oh my God, you set half the area on fire! She had to turn back human to make you calm down!”

“And that _hardly_ helped since she was _naked_ ,” Lydia said with another aggrieved sigh. 

“I was a teenager,” Parrish insisted, affronted. “I did my best.” 

Stiles just laughed and continued playing lightly with Derek’s ear. He flicked it a few times, like he was trying to make Stiles stop, but seemed to resign himself to his fate after a number of failed attempts. Stiles wasn’t tugging on it anymore, just pulling it gently through his fingers until he reached the tip and starting over. 

Derek kept his head resting on Stiles’ leg for a while, staring around at nothing while the others continued to talk. Kira and Parrish were still arguing about whether or not it was funny that he’d almost lit Laura on fire in his terror, and Lydia was trying to shift the topic of discussion to something a bit less juvenile. Stiles figured this was a story she’d heard enough times that she was bored of it now. 

Stiles tried to keep track of the conversations, but there were now too many happening at once. Lydia had coerced Allison into another conversation, Kira and Parrish were still making fun of each other, and Mason was trying to join in on both conversations by asking questions, which just made Stiles lose track of what the hell anyone was talking about. 

He turned back towards the trees when he heard a loud howl from the depths of the Preserve. Derek lifted his head off his knee and howled back, very briefly, before settling once more and closing his eyes. A few howls followed his, but he didn’t howl back this time. He just stayed where he was. 

“Hey.” Stiles tugged on his ear again, Derek’s eyes opening to look up at him. “You can go back out there, you know. If you want. I’m fine here.” 

Derek huffed and closed his eyes, making no move to leave. Stiles interpreted that as, “I’m fine here, too.” 

“Okay then.” Stiles smiled and went back to gently petting his ear, looking back over at his friends while they joked and bantered. 

Things were good. Things were so, so good. 

* * *

“I need to borrow you.” 

Stiles turned from his position at the kitchen counter where he was dutifully ignoring Derek’s huffing and annoyed guitar strumming over the fact that he was making brownies. He hadn’t managed to stop Stiles before most of the ingredients were in the bowl, and he didn’t want anything to go to waste, so here they were: Derek sulking and Stiles making brownies. 

To be fair, he was planning on bringing them to the Halloween party that night, which was why he’d made a double batch. One batch for him, one batch for the pack. It was almost even. 

Though Stiles had no idea how Peter expected the pack to fit in his house. There were so many of them now, and this wasn’t like the smaller original pack gatherings. This was his big Halloween bash, so the whole new and improved pack would be there. 

He suspected most of the wolves and other non-susceptible-to-the-cold Supernaturals would be hanging out outside while the weeny human-like people would be in the warmth _inside_.

Stiles was glad his costume had a cloak. 

“What?” he asked, staring at Jackson in confusion. 

His friend looked extremely uncomfortable, shifting his weight, avoiding his eye, shoulders hunched. It was so unlike him that Stiles actually paused in his mixing, concerned. Were he and Ethan having problems? Shit, Stiles was _so_ not the right person to talk to about relationship problems, he and Derek had basically gotten past their angry fighting and constantly getting on each other’s nerves the first year they’d been living together.

And they hadn’t even been _dating_.

It was probably a benefit of ending up dating his roommate and best friend, they’d already hashed out all the things that pissed each other off ages ago. 

“I need to borrow you.” Jackson winced, still not looking at him. “Please.” 

Stiles was pretty sure he’d never heard that word escape Jackson’s mouth, and that really concerned him. He pushed the bowl aside and wiped his hands on his jeans while heading for the kitchen doorway. Jackson’s tense frame relaxed a fraction of a percent, but definitely no more than that. 

When they walked back into the living room, Jackson turned to Derek. “Can we borrow your car?” 

Derek cocked an eyebrow, clearly confused since Jackson usually always stole Peter’s, but maybe he’d actually walked to the loft through the Preserve today. He motioned for Stiles to go for it, since he evidently wasn’t going out any time soon, and Stiles went to hunt down some socks, a hoodie, and grabbed the spare key. 

He supposed he should stop calling it the _spare_ key. It was _his_ key. Attached to the keys for the loft and everything. It was just still really weird that he was allowed to leave on his own now, so he legitimately had a full set of keys he could use whenever he wanted and not just when he _really_ had to. 

Not that he was going to be on his own, but that wasn’t the point. 

Once he’d gotten socks and a hoodie on, he headed back downstairs and was pulling on his shoes by the door, Jackson waiting beside him, when Derek touched his elbow lightly. Stiles turned to him, still putting his other shoe on, and his boyfriend motioned the kitchen. 

Evidently, he was going to be kind and finish the brownies. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said with a small smile, telling him it was two batches, how long they needed to be in for, and at what temperature. “If I’m not back before you head out, just leave my costume here and I’ll change out and see you there.” He straightened when the second shoe was on, kissed Derek goodbye, then pulled open the loft door. 

Jackson preceded him out of the loft, and Stiles slid the door shut behind him. He didn’t bother locking it, since the danger was lower now and if Derek wanted it locked, he’d do so on his own from the inside. They made it down the stairs relatively quickly and outside, Stiles pausing to lock up the building before heading for the car. 

“Can I drive?” Jackson asked as they approached. 

“Sure.” Stiles handed the keys over, knowing Derek wouldn’t mind—wasn’t like Jackson hadn’t driven the Mustang before—and moved to climb into the passenger seat when Jackson unlocked all the doors. 

He buckled himself in and looked over at Jackson while he adjusted the seat and mirrors. Stiles felt like he was taking his time, stalling, and trying to make like he was legitimately attempting to get the one side mirror _just_ right. 

When he ran out of things to do to procrastinate, he finally started the car and pulled out of the front lot, driving exceptionally carefully—and slowly—towards the main road. 

Stiles started to fidget. He couldn’t help it. Something was clearly wrong, and Jackson hadn’t said anything yet. His hands were white-knuckled around the steering wheel, the creaking sound coming from it making Stiles a little nervous. Derek had already been forced to replace that steering wheel once this year, he probably wouldn’t be happy if he had to do it a second time. 

He wasn’t entirely sure where they were going, and even though his brain was screaming at him to say something, to ask if everything was okay, to demand to know what was wrong so he could help fix it, he kept his mouth shut. Jackson didn’t usually let himself be vulnerable like this in front of Stiles, and it occurred to him that maybe Ethan was behind that.

Maybe, back in May, when he’d been speaking to Ethan and asking him for help on being there for Jackson, the other man had actually _told_ his boyfriend that Stiles _wanted_ to know his ‘emotional garbage.’ 

Maybe, after all these months, after all this _time_ , Jackson truly needed Stiles and was willing to take a chance. Maybe he was finally going to let him in, even if just a little bit. 

And Stiles knew that wouldn’t be easy for him, so he was absolutely going to bite his tongue and keep his patience, and just hope that whatever was going on was something he could actually help him with. Because he so, _so_ badly wanted to be someone Jackson could come to when he needed help, because he was his friend, and he cared about him. 

They didn’t drive for very long, maybe about ten minutes. When they finally eased into a parking spot, Jackson cutting off the engine and staring out at the building they’d stopped in front of, Stiles had absolutely no _fucking_ idea what was going on.

Because they were at the post office.

Why did Jackson look like he was going to vomit because they were at the post office? 

It was starting to get _really_ difficult to control his mouth, but Stiles dutifully kept it shut and vibrated in his seat with about a million questions. Most of them related to what they were doing there, why Jackson was so uncomfortable to _be_ there, and if he was okay. 

The last one was the most important, honestly. 

“It’s really hard to get a driver’s license in California,” Jackson said quietly, Stiles frowning at him. “You need a whole bunch of documents proving your identity. One of those is a birth certificate. Not exactly easy to get one of those when you can’t prove who you are. And you can’t get anything _else_ to prove who you are if you don’t have a birth certificate. It’s kind of a cycle. I need a birth certificate to get a license, a replacement social security card, a passport. But to get my birth certificate, I have to prove who I am using a license, a social security card, or a passport. Difficult to do when you need one to get the other.” 

Stiles turned to look at the post office again, and realized that Jackson was picking something up. Based on what he was saying, Stiles felt inclined to believe it was his birth certificate. 

“How did you end up getting it?” he asked quietly, looking back at Jackson.

He was still clenching the steering wheel tightly, like they were still driving and he had to pay attention to the road. “Peter, how else?” 

Peter was seriously terrifying sometimes. Stiles honestly wondered if he wasn’t secretly some kind of mafia boss or something, bullying people into giving him money and official documents and helping out with building houses in the Preserve. He knew he wasn’t, but the guy was seriously scary with how much he could get people to do for him. 

He would’ve been a truly terrifying opponent, Stiles was _really_ glad he was on their side. 

“A lawyer wrote a sworn declaration for me. A few, actually. I need one to pick up my certificate since I can’t prove who I am and it was sent by registered mail. They need you to pick it up and sign for it at a physical office, they don’t deliver it to your house.” 

Stiles figured Jackson had the declaration somewhere on his person, because he hadn’t walked in with anything. It was probably folded up in an envelope in his jacket or something. Stiles had to wonder how someone completed a document like that. “I swear the person in front of you, with these features, and this height, is Jackson Whittemore, born on this day in this place.” 

Actually, he wondered if Jackson knew any of that information. “Do you know where you were born?”

“I thought it was Florida. I grew up there with my parents before Harris. But turns out I was born in California.” He glanced at Stiles then. “Who’d have thought I was born in the same stupid State as your dumb ass.” 

Jackson was getting rude again. Stiles couldn’t decide if that was a good thing, or a bad one. 

“I’m glad you got to obtain a copy of your birth certificate,” he said honestly. “Means you can get a real license and avoid Parrish finding out and having a heart attack over the fact that you’ve been driving around without a license for a year.” 

“I’m not the only one.” 

Stiles blinked at him, then realized Alex _also_ likely didn’t have a license. Jesus, all these people driving around without actually being _allowed_ to. Stiles almost wanted to laugh, since Alex had been living with Parrish up until she and Rose had moved into the second completed pack house, and he’d never even thought to ask if she had a license all those times she’d borrowed his car. 

The world they lived in was wild. 

“Peter got Alex some papers, too. It was easier for her, she knew more about her history than I did. She’s already picked her stuff up. Got Rose’s certificate, too.” 

Stiles glanced back at the post office, and it occurred to him that he still wasn’t entirely sure why Jackson was so nervous or uncomfortable. He was just picking up his birth certificate, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Walk in, give the papers over to prove who he was, take his envelope, walk out. 

So why was he acting like this was the last thing in the world he wanted to do? 

They were both silent for a long while, Stiles watching Jackson while he stared out at the post office, jaw clenching. He kind of wanted to put his hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t want to crowd him, and he doubted Jackson would like that. He clearly just wanted to be with someone who made him feel safe, and Stiles was kind of thrilled to be that person. 

“My parents knew Harris, you know.” 

Stiles felt like his lungs had closed up, because _his parents **what**_?! 

“What?” he asked, _positive_ he’d misheard him. 

“That’s how he found out about me,” Jackson said, still staring out the windshield. “He came to visit us in Florida all the time. Old friend of my dad’s, went to university together or something.” Jackson waved it off as unimportant. “He’d come down a few times a year, and sometimes dad would go up and visit him. He seemed like a nice guy, he was always really friendly, and he brought me toys and shit when I was still young enough to like those sorts of things.” 

Stiles felt like his world had tipped sideways. Jackson had never alluded to the fact that he and Harris had history beyond his time in his collection. He always spoke about Harris in a detached sort of way, like he didn’t know anything about him, and didn’t care to. But now, here he was, admitting to Stiles that the man was someone he’d known practically his entire life. 

Killing Harris had been more personal than Stiles had ever imagined. It was as much about not letting him ever come after him again, as it was payback for pretending to be someone who cared about him until he suddenly wasn’t. 

“I got bitten when I was nine,” Jackson said, the words coming easily, like it was no big deal. 

Stiles knew it was. He’d heard enough about being bitten from Scott and the others to know being bitten sucked. And for a nine year old, that was insane. That was like Rose getting bitten. He’d only been a fucking _child_. 

“It was weird, at first. My parents knew I was bitten, so I went to all the usual programs. Learned how to control my shift and all that. But I was different. My parents knew it, the counsellor knew it, Harris knew it. When I got really mad, when my shift went out of control, I’d turn into a Werewolf, but also something else.” He scoffed then, raking one hand through his hair. Stiles saw it was shaking, even though Jackson hadn’t once expressed any kind of fear at admitting this story aloud. “I’d just turned twelve when people figured out what I was. What happened to me was extremely rare. A person who had _just_ enough magic to _be_ something, but hadn’t had the chance for it to actually manifest.” 

Stiles frowned at that, not sure he understood. “What do you mean?” 

“You know how Satomi was a Witch before she got bitten?” Jackson asked without looking at him. He must’ve been able to see Stiles out of the corner of his eye, because when he nodded, Jackson continued. “She’d already come into her power. She was fully magic when she got turned, so she became both a Witch _and_ a Werewolf. I was only nine. My powers hadn’t manifested yet. We don’t even know what I was.” His gaze lowered to his hands, clenching tightly around the steering wheel. “But I was _something_. Something magic. And because it hadn’t developed, when the Werewolf bit me, the bite and my undeveloped magic kind of... merged together. It’s an extremely rare phenomenon, but it’s happened before.” He paused again for a few seconds, then said, “That’s how a Kanima is created.” 

Stiles had honestly always wondered why Harris had been able to use cuffs on Jackson—well, a collar, since Harris had used that instead of actual cuffs. As far as he knew, the cuffs were for magic, and shouldn’t have affected a Werewolf like Jackson, whose power was physical. Similarly, he also knew wolfsbane didn’t affect Jackson the same way it did the other Weres. It affected him, but only when it was in large doses, and nowhere near as badly unless it was literally murderous amounts. 

But if being a Kanima was part magic, then it made sense that using wolfsbane cuffs with some of his Kanima venom like Jackson had told him back when he’d set him free would work at keeping him contained. It was like mixing together all the different things that hurt one side or the other of him, and succeeded in hurting him in general. 

Jackson would’ve grown up to be another regular magic-user, if only he hadn’t been bitten when he was nine. 

“After they found out what I was,” Jackson continued, like this story wasn’t having _any_ effect on him, even though Stiles could see that it truly did, “my parents panicked. They didn’t want a freak for a kid, didn’t like the idea that I could paralyse them with my claws if they pissed me off. They didn’t want me around anymore, and when Harris came to visit us a few months after my twelfth birthday, he offered them a deal.” 

Stiles felt a stab of anger pierce through him at those words. A deal. A fucking _deal_? Jackson was their _son_! He was a fucking _child_! And his parents had just listened to some guy make a proposition and sent him packing on his merry way?! 

“I was his first,” Jackson said quietly. “He knew what Collectors were. He wasn’t one of them at the time, but he was in those circles with other people. And now he found out his oldest friend had a son who was rare and didn’t want him anymore, and he saw an opportunity. He offered my parents money, a lot of it, for them to give me to him. I thought it was obvious that they would never do that to me, I was their kid.” He scoffed. “I was wrong.” 

Stiles honestly didn’t know what to say. He’d never really given much thought to how Jackson had ended up with Harris. He knew he’d been sold to him, but he supposed a part of him had always assumed his parents had been murdered and he’d been kidnapped and sold in some kind of online black market auction and Harris happened to be the highest bidder.

To find out Harris was an old family friend, that his parents had actually _sold him_ to the guy, was making him feel like he wanted to throw up.

Jackson let out a harsh laugh, raking one hand through his hair again. “I need my birth certificate to get a driver’s license. But having it in my hand with their names on it is just going to be a constant reminder that I was a monster to them. I was their son, and they didn’t want me anymore.” 

Stiles had to say something. He knew he had to say something, but words were failing him. He didn’t want them to fail him, not right now. Not when Jackson was hurting, and had just spilled his deepest, darkest secret about his life. 

“Their loss,” he finally said, Jackson turning to him. “They gave you up because they were scared of you. It’s their fucking loss.” He reached out and, even though he wasn’t sure of his welcome, he wrapped one hand around Jackson’s closest forearm and squeezed. “You don’t need them. You’ve never needed them. They don’t deserve you. Their names might be on your birth certificate, but they are _not_ your parents. You know who your real parent is?” 

Jackson frowned then, like he had no idea where Stiles was going with this, but he continued before Jackson could ask. 

“Peter. Peter is your real parent. He cares about you. He looks out for you. He took you in, clothed you, fed you, let you borrow his car, gave you a phone, helped you have a _life_. Peter is your father, not the man listed on your birth certificate. And those two assholes aren’t your family, _we_ are. _We_ are your family. Blood might be thicker than water, but water has the ability to choose its own path. We don’t have to share blood to be family, and I don’t care what anyone says, _you_ are my family. This pack is my family, _your_ family. We’ve all lost, and we’ve all been hurt, and all of us are broken one way or another. But we always make it through the worst of it because we’re together.” Stiles tightened his grip on Jackson’s arm. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. The only reason those people will be on your birth certificate is because they were the ones who brought you into this world, but that does _not_ make them your family. _I_ am your family, they are just a sperm donor and an incubator, nothing more.” 

Jackson was staring at him exceptionally hard, and Stiles could see his jaw working, like he was trying with everything he had not to react to those words. Like it was taking everything in him not to start being all sappy and blurt out that Stiles was his family too, and he loved him, and this pack was the best thing to ever happen to him, and _God_ , had it really only been a year and a half since they’d known each other? It felt like an eternity. 

Finally, after a very long and charged silence, Jackson turned back to the building. “Let’s get this over with.” 

He kicked open his door after unbuckling his seatbelt and climbed out. Stiles followed suit, closing his door a little lighter than Jackson’s full on slam. He didn’t say anything, because it was clear this wasn’t an easy thing for Jackson. He just wanted to get a driver’s license, he had no choice but to pick up his birth certificate to do that. 

They walked into the post office, Stiles a little surprised to see how empty it was. He supposed he was used to going to ones in bigger cities, or during busy times. He’d never gone to the one at Beacon Hills before. It was small, and there was literally only one person there looking at boxes to ship a package in, along with the employee behind the counter. 

The man perked up slightly at the sight of them, and his smile was so bright as they approached that Stiles was positive he recognized them.

It was hard not to, Stiles kind of stood out. 

“You must be Jackson,” he said before they’d even fully reached the counter. “Peter said to expect you, just one moment.” 

The man disappeared through a swinging door, Jackson turning to frown at Stiles. Honestly, Stiles wasn’t sure why he looked so surprised, of _course_ Peter would call ahead when he knew where Jackson was headed. 

He was his fucking _dad_. 

“Here we are.” The man came back through the swinging door with a large cardboard envelope. It made Stiles uncomfortable, because it looked identical to the one he’d once opened that had held another smaller envelope full of yellow powder that had made Derek hallucinate. 

Jackson reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two pieces of paper stapled together folded into quarters. He unfolded it and handed it over to the man, Stiles realizing it was the signed and sealed sworn declaration of his identity. The man hadn’t asked for it, but Jackson obviously wanted to do this properly. 

When it was handed back to him, Jackson tucked it away, signed off on the electronic pad, then hesitated when the envelope was held out to him. Stiles waited only five seconds before reaching out and taking it for him.

“Thank you,” he said with a smile, his other hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Have a good day.”

“Same to you,” he said pleasantly, still looking pleased as punch. He was probably excited to have had the opportunity to meet the Spark and his Kanima friend. As small as Beacon Hills was, Stiles hadn’t exactly met _everyone_. 

They headed for the door, Jackson clenching his jaw while snatching the envelope from Stiles. He ripped it open and reached into it for the large, brown manila envelope, shoving the cardboard one at Stiles almost violently. They hadn’t quite made it outside when he’d finished ripping through that one and pulled out his certificate, stopping as Stiles had just pushed open the glass door. 

“What is it?” 

Jackson was staring down at the piece of paper like he didn’t understand it. It was the long-form birth certificate, that outlined almost all the details of his immediate family, including his mother’s married _and_ maiden name. Stiles knew some of them also indicated the names of people’s grandparents, but he hadn’t seen one of those personally. He just knew they existed. 

Without a word, Jackson turned and went back to the man at the counter. “This is the wrong certificate.” 

Stiles frowned while hurrying after his friend, the man blinking at him in confusion. 

“I don’t believe it is,” he said with a small furrow to his brows. “It was requested by yourself personally, wasn’t it? This is what was delivered.” 

“But these names are wrong,” Jackson insisted, waving the certificate in the man’s face. “My parent’s names weren’t Gordon and Margaret Miller. How can my birth certificate show my name as Jackson Whittemore if their names are Gordon and Margaret Miller?! They made a mistake, send it back!” 

“Jackson,” Stiles dropped the envelope he was holding and grabbed at Jackson’s arm, pulling him back slightly, because he was starting to wolf out, eyes bright blue and fangs in his mouth, scales crawling up the side of his neck. “Hey, calm down.” 

“Send it back!” 

“Jackson!” Stiles wrenched him hard so he turned to face him, grabbing his face in both hands. “Hey, stay with me. It’s okay.” 

“These aren’t my parents!” he insisted, sounding almost horrified. His expression looked broken, and Stiles was pretty sure he was going to fucking lose it. “My parents were David and Candance Whittemore! These aren’t my parents!” 

“Hey!” Stiles gave his head another shake. “We’ll figure it out. This is your birth certificate, it has your name on it. We’ll figure it out.” He glanced at the guy behind the counter, who looked worried, but not frightened. Stiles had to applaud his bravery. “Thank you. Sorry.” 

The guy did a weird sort of half-shrug, like he had no idea what the fuck was going on, and Stiles wrapped one arm around Jackson’s shoulders while wrenching him out of the post office. 

When they got back to the car, he took his keys from Jackson’s pocket since he was clearly in no condition to drive, and got him into the passenger seat. Jackson was just staring down at the certificate in his hands, breathing hard and looking like he wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on.

 _Stiles_ didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but his friend was having a meltdown, and he wanted to help him. 

When he got behind the wheel, before starting the car, he looked over at what Jackson was holding, eyes roving over all the information present. 

Apparently Jackson’s birthday was June fifteenth. Stiles wished he’d said something, no one had ever known when it was, and Jackson refused to tell people. Stiles suspected it was because he hated having been born. To be fair, he felt like, in the past, he could relate. Stiles didn’t mind his birthday so much anymore. He was happy to be alive now that his life wasn’t in shambles. He hoped that, in time, Jackson would feel the same way. 

Stiles forced himself to look over the rest of the document, and he frowned when he noticed that Jackson’s parents both said ‘deceased’ beside their names. If that was on his birth certificate, then that meant they’d died literally when he’d been born. 

That meant ‘Whittemore’ wasn’t actually his legal last name, it was the last name of the people who’d taken him in. Stiles didn’t understand why it was on his birth certificate though, but maybe because his parents had died when he was born, whoever had come to pick him up had given him his name. Wasn’t like his parents could do it, considering. 

Stiles tapped one finger thoughtfully against the steering wheel while Jackson kept staring down at his birth certificate, then he started the Mustang and pulled out of the lot, turning the car around and heading for the library. He knew he could head home, or to the Hale house, but Jackson didn’t seem to be in a position to see people right now. It would be better to have him somewhere with the lowest chance of anyone who knew him seeing him like this. 

When they arrived, Stiles had to help Jackson out of the car again, because he seemed to be in some weird state of shock. Considering the story he’d just been told, and why picking up his birth certificate had been such a hardship for him, Stiles wasn’t really surprised. 

Entering the library, Stiles left Jackson by one of the shelves out of sight before moving to the lady at the counter and asking about their public computers. When he was told there was no password requirement and that they were all connected to the internet, he went back to fetch Jackson and hunted down one of the computers in the furthest corner of the library. 

It was cold out, and Halloween, so there were hardly any people present. Most of them were looking through the books on the shelves, and a few student-aged people were at the old newspapers likely working on a project, but the computers were mostly all free. It made sense, virtually everyone had their own at home—or in their hand, given smart phones—so there was less of a demand for the library computers. 

Stiles pulled a second chair up beside one of the computers and Jackson sat down heavily in it, still staring at the certificate like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Stiles took his own seat while logging onto the library’s public domain and opened Google Chrome. He glanced at Jackson, then hesitated before very carefully pulling the document from his hand.

Jackson allowed it, looking up at him, then at the computer, face blank and clearly not understanding. Stiles just set the certificate down where he could easily see it and typed in his parent’s names along with the date and Jackson’s city of birth. 

When he hit enter, it was the first article that showed up. 

‘Two dead in drunk driver collision, newborn stable.’ 

He clicked on it and felt Jackson lean closer. Stiles didn’t know if it was to see better, or because he needed some emotional support. He was leaning into him fairly heavily, so Stiles figured it was the latter. 

He made sure to scroll slowly so that Jackson would have time to read in his shocked state, and the more he read himself, the sadder he became. 

Jackson’s parents truly _were_ Gordon and Margaret Miller. Margaret was just over eight months pregnant while they’d been driving home from a dinner party. Their car had been sideswiped by a drunk driver and spun out of control before slamming into an oncoming truck. 

The truck driver had suffered minor injuries, but Gordon had died on impact. Margaret was in critical condition and while they rushed her to the hospital, it was determined an emergency C-section had to take place before they lost both mother and child. Apparently the truck driver had gone with her to the hospital so she wouldn’t be alone, and had actually witnessed the person who’d clipped their car. 

That ended up being depressing too, because it was a seventeen year old girl who’d had too much to drink at a party and had stupidly driven home. Stiles couldn’t imagine how she felt once she’d sobered up and found the police at her door because she’d killed two people. 

Jackson’s mother had died on the table, but despite being born pre-mature, Jackson had ended up being okay. He was labelled only under ‘Miller’ for a long while until the police managed to find family. 

They had to move to other articles to get more of the story, but after almost an hour of research and clicking back and forth between different websites and news stories, Stiles and Jackson had the gist of what had happened. 

Apparently Candace Whittemore was Margaret Miller’s older sister. She was the one who came down to identify the bodies and ended up adopting Jackson, giving him the name Jackson Whittemore. 

According to a quote in the article, she’d chosen to give him her own married last name to ‘avoid any complications in the future and having to explain what had happened to his real parents.’ So even though Jackson’s birth parents were named ‘Miller,’ he’d been given the name ‘Whittemore’ because of his aunt. 

Stiles found that to be a stupid and selfish reason not to tell the truth. Besides, had Jackson stayed with them until he was sixteen, he would’ve found out _anyway_ considering his birth certificate was needed to get a license, and that was what had started this whole series of events to begin with!

So while David and Candace Whittemore were still related to Jackson by blood, they weren’t _actually_ his parents, and Stiles had spent a majority of the remainder of the afternoon with Jackson in the library reading up about the two Millers. They sounded like kind, amazing people, and nothing at all like the Whittemores. 

Gordon was a therapist who specialized in abuse victims, and Margaret was an ER nurse. All the comments they’d found online from various people spoke about what kind and caring individuals they were, and how missed they would be. Stiles even stumbled upon a very small local paper someone had actually digitized that was from the Miller’s hometown wherein one of their close family friends had been trying to fight the Whittemores on custody, because apparently Margaret and Candace had never been close and this family friend was set to be the godmother. Because there were no official documents outlining this, and David was a fairly good lawyer, that ended up being overruled. 

Stiles didn’t know why the Whittemores had fought so hard for a child they’d ended up selling. He supposed some people just wanted to seem better than they truly were, and adopting Candace’s dead sister’s son would be thought of as selfless and generous. The only thing he was happy about reading all of this was that it sounded like the Millers were amazing, wonderful people who would’ve given their son a lot of love and happiness, and the Whittemores were selfish assholes who’d liked the idea of being seen as kind and caring because they’d taken in this poor child who’d lost his parents. 

It took him a while to notice it was almost six, and he only really found out because the librarian came around to tell them the library was closing up soon. He apologized and promised they’d be gone momentarily, and realized he really _would_ be meeting Derek at the house. He figured it was a good thing they had to go back to the loft for his costume. Having a bit more alone time with Jackson would help him get his head on straight, and then they could head out. He didn’t want him showing up and being out of sorts, he definitely needed to talk this out. 

Before he shut everything down, Stiles pulled his phone out and texted himself the name of the woman who’d been fighting for custody over Jackson. It was a longshot that they would be able to find her after all these years, but Stiles thought it might be nice for Jackson to get the chance to speak to someone to know about his _real_ parents. 

He also had a text from Derek, a simple question mark to ask where he was. It was time-stamped over an hour ago and Stiles winced, feeling bad, but at least he knew Derek wouldn’t be worried about him. 

Quickly texting back that he’d see him at the house, and would stop at the loft to change before heading over, Stiles shoved his phone back into his pocket and closed out of all the browsers before shutting down the computer. 

Turning to Jackson, he patted his shoulder once, squeezing hard. “Let’s go,” he said softly. 

Jackson just nodded but didn’t say anything as he stood. Stiles made sure he’d grabbed his birth certificate and they left the library, Stiles thanking the woman at the desk since she hadn’t bothered them or insisted they were loitering. 

Heading back for the Mustang, Stiles waited for Jackson to get in before doing the same, buckling himself in and starting it up so they could head for the loft. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what to say. This was kind of a big thing to find out just by picking up a birth certificate. All this time, all these _years_ , Jackson had been suffering in silence thinking his parents hated him. That they believed he was a monster. That they’d rather he be with a Collector than in their picture perfect picket-fence home. 

It was while he was driving back to the loft that a thought occurred to him, and he was suddenly angry. Well, he’d been angry most of the day after hearing Jackson’s story, but even _more_ angry now because—these people hadn’t been punished. Jackson hadn’t told anyone anything about how he’d ended up with Harris, so these people were just... living their lives. 

Probably enjoying Jackson’s estate assets, since Stiles was pretty sure if his parents didn’t have a will, the funds would’ve automatically gone to him. And even if they had a will, it would’ve likely had to go to court upon review given the fact that they died after having a child. 

That made him _furious_ because he knew how much Jackson wished he could stand on his own two feet, and for all they knew, he was owed a large sum of money. It was just like with Stiles when his father had died. The funds from his estate belonged to him, and while it had hurt receiving that money because this was his _dad_ and he was _dead_ , it had helped Stiles feel like he wasn’t entirely reliant on everyone around him. 

“Jackson,” he said quietly, honestly unsure of his welcome on this. “I know you’ll want some time to think about this. I know this hasn’t been an easy day for you. But I was hoping—would you be okay if we talked to Peter about this?” He glanced over at him briefly to gage his reaction, but Jackson was still staring down at the certificate. “I just think... after what they did to you, I just want them to pay for it. And they’re probably living off your parents’ estate, and I’m not okay with that when that money belongs to you.” 

He pulled into the front lot of the loft and parked by the door, turning off the engine and turning to Jackson a bit more. 

“I know you don’t like it when people know too much about you, but this is... I can’t leave this. I can’t stand the idea that these people made you feel this way your entire life, and that they never even told you they weren’t your real parents.”

Jackson inhaled deeply, held his breath, then let it out. For a second, Stiles thought he was going to put his mask back on. Say something rude, punch him in the shoulder, step out of the car. Surprisingly, he managed to continue to show a bit of vulnerability. 

“I’m pissed they never told me they weren’t my real parents, but I’m also kind of relieved. I was never their son. They were never my parents. It wasn’t my _real_ family who sold me to someone because they didn’t want me around anymore. It was just two assholes who wanted to look good in front of their church or whatever.” Finally, after fucking _hours_ of this quiet, in shock Jackson, he _finally_ looked up, eyes locking with Stiles’. “You’re right. Peter is my father.” 

Stiles smiled, reaching out to lightly nudge at Jackson’s shoulder. “Yeah he is.”

Jackson looked back down at the certificate, then bent down to grab the envelope it had come in, slowly slipping it back inside and climbing out of the car. Stiles took that as his cue to follow and he locked up the Mustang before following Jackson to the door. 

He preceded him into the building, having to walk a bit more slowly since the fading light outside made it difficult for him to see, but he managed to make it to the stairs without braining himself. He climbed them slowly, Jackson behind him, and tried the door at the top. Derek had evidently left, because the loft was locked up, and it took a bit of doing for him to get it _unlocked_ since he didn’t have night vision. 

Pulling it open and turning on the lights, he waited for Jackson to follow before shutting the door. He hesitated just inside the loft, his friend moving to sit down on the couch. 

“We don’t have to go,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and moving closer to Jackson. “We can stay here, if you want. I can text Derek so he knows.” 

“I want to go,” Jackson insisted after having set down the envelope beside him. He folded his hands together and rested his elbows on his thighs while he looked up at Stiles. “Everyone says Peter’s Halloween parties are amazing. We didn’t exactly get the chance to celebrate last year.” 

He didn’t say, “Because you weren’t here,” but he didn’t have to. Stiles knew his absence while with the Argents had weighed heavily on all of them. 

“Okay.” Stiles wasn’t going to push this. If Jackson said he wanted to go, then they would go. “Let me grab my costume and we can head out.”

Jackson unfolded his hands so he could flap one at Stiles in a ‘go do what needs doing’ way, so he turned and started for the stairs. He hadn’t even reached them yet when Jackson spoke and he turned back to him. 

“Hey Stiles?” 

“What’s up?” 

“Do you think Peter, Derek and Cora would be okay if I changed my last name?” 

Stiles frowned, wondering why he thought he would need their permission to change his name. It was _his_ name, he could change it to whatever he wanted. “I don’t think they should have a say in the matter. If you want to switch out Whittemore for Miller, they’re not going to stop you.” 

Jackson was silent for a long moment, and then said, very quietly, “I was actually thinking I really wouldn’t mind being a Hale.” 

Stiles had exactly one second for those words to register before Jackson had his face in his hands and began to cry. It wasn’t loud, body-wracking sobs, but the almost silence that followed his tears made Stiles’ chest ache and he moved back to the couch, sitting down right up against Jackson and wrapping one arm around his shoulders, pulling him into his side and letting his cheek rest on top of Jackson’s head. 

“Jackson Hale sounds like a great name,” he admitted softly. “And I think you basically already are one, anyway. I don’t think any of them would mind if you wanted to make it official.” 

They were late showing up to the party, but when they did, Jackson was back to his usual assholeish self, and Stiles noticed him glancing at Peter throughout the night, like he was soaking in the fact that he truly _did_ have a real father in his life, even if he hadn’t grown up with him. 

Stiles smiled at the idea of having another Hale around. There weren’t enough of them in the world, in his opinion, so adding another was definitely more than okay with him. 

* * *

“This way! This way! Come _on_ , Derek!” 

Stiles laughed as Rose tugged Derek excitedly down the corridor, his boyfriend pretending to struggle to follow along because she was going too fast. Alex was laughing right alongside him, shaking her head and nudging Stiles lightly while they watched Derek and Rose disappear into the little girl’s room. 

“Peter painted one wall like an erupting volcano the other day,” Alex informed him in explanation to Rose’s excitement. “She’s been waiting all week to show Derek.” 

“I mean, I’d say that’s weird, but she’s an earth Elemental, so as long as she likes it, that’s what matters.” 

“Indeed.” Alex smiled and motioned him towards the small kitchen, Stiles nodding a thanks and heading that way. “I apologize we commandeered your birthday dinner with Derek. I tried to explain to Rose that it was a special day for the two of you, but she wasn’t very understanding.” 

“It’s fine,” Stiles promised, taking a seat at the small kitchen table and glancing out towards where the other two had gone. “Derek’s birthday being a people thing is still kinda new to him, but I think it’s nice for him to see all the different people who love him.” He turned back to her, grinning. “Besides, this saved me from having to cook.” He winked at her. 

Alex laughed and pretended to cuff him across the back of the head with a dishtowel. He just beamed at her, because she truly was such an amazing woman. 

She’d been growing out her hair lately, and he found that it really suited her. She’d looked stunning with the shaved head, but he wasn’t sure if that had been something she’d maintained out of habit, or if she’d just wanted a change because winter was looming. Either way, he thought she looked really classy with her hair growing out like it was. 

“How’s Jackson been doing?” she asked while bending down to check the oven and turning to glance at the timer she’d set on the microwave. 

“He’s fine,” Stiles said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “I think finding out who his real parents were has been really good for him.”

“I’d imagine knowing his parents weren’t the monsters he thought they were has to be providing a bit of relief,” she said bitterly. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. 

Jackson hadn’t wanted to be the one to tell people about what he’d found out, so the morning after Halloween, he’d asked Stiles to talk to Peter about it for him because it “wasn’t a big deal, or whatever.” Stiles was positive Jackson was worried Peter wouldn’t care, or that he would somehow react badly to the news and kick him out. 

He had no idea _why_ Jackson thought that, but he’d reluctantly agreed. He’d invited himself over for lunch, but Derek had followed along and Alex was already there with Rose so it had kind of derailed the plan a little bit. He’d texted to let Jackson know, but had been told it was fine to share it with them too. 

So, he’d told them all over lunch. 

Predictably, Peter had been _furious_ and had spent the last seven days working on finding the Whittemores and getting them put away for what they’d done. He hadn’t succeeded yet at the second part yet, but Stiles knew he would. He was _Peter_. 

He also brought up the funds he was sure Jackson was entitled to, and the woman that had been fighting for custody when the Whittemores had snatched Jackson up. He was sure Peter was looking into that, too. 

Derek had looked heartbroken at hearing everything, because he was probably also thinking about how much Jackson had suffered at the thought that his parents thought he was a monster. Alex had excused herself and left when he was done. She returned with red eyes and Stiles was pretty sure she’d gone to cry in private somewhere. 

She’d known Jackson the longest out of all of them. Finding out that he’d spent all those years in Harris’ house, someone he’d known since _childhood_ , because of the people he’d grown up _believing_ were his parents had evidently been a bit much for her to handle. 

Stiles had been worried when Jackson had come home hours later for dinner. He’d thought maybe Peter would start coddling him, or Derek and Alex would treat him differently. It was clear Jackson thought that too, because he’d tensed when he’d entered the kitchen, but all anyone said about it was that they were glad he had the chance to choose his own _new_ family, and they hoped he was happy. 

Jackson had pretended hearing that wasn’t a big deal, but Stiles could tell he was happy about it. He didn’t think he’d brought up changing his name yet, and Stiles hadn’t mentioned it, but he figured Jackson would talk to Peter about it when he was ready. 

And thinking about that made him think about Alex and Rose. 

Alex had been taking care of Rose as long as Stiles had known them. Jackson had once said that Rose’s parents had been killed by the people who’d kidnapped her, and he suspected that Alex had once had a daughter who’d been taken from her. Alex wasn’t actually Rose’s mother, but Stiles knew she would love to be. Officially. And really, they were lucky no one had come by to question the fact that Alex was just taking care of this kid like she was her own child, normally she’d have gone into the system. 

Stiles knew Peter would never let that happen, and Alex would rather run with Rose than give her up, but he felt like it might be nice if she could actually call Rose her _daughter_. 

“You should talk to Peter.” 

“Hm?” Alex asked, back to him while she continued to watch whatever was in the oven. He couldn’t see it from his seat, so he had no idea what it was. “About what?” 

“You and Rose.” 

She straightened then so she could turn to look at him, frowning in confusion. “What do you mean?” 

Stiles chose his next words very carefully. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m not prying, and it’s none of my business. But you love Rose as if she were your own, and I know she loves you and thinks of you as her mother. I just thought—maybe you’d like for that to be official. Like adopting her.” 

Alex stared at him for a long while, and Stiles thought at first that maybe he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Then he realized that she was thinking about what he’d said. 

“I never thought that would be possible for me,” she admitted quietly after a long silence. “But I also never thought I would be able to get my birth certificate without any other identification. Or Rose’s. But Peter made it happen.” 

“Peter makes a lot of things happen,” Stiles agreed. 

She moved forward then, dropping the dishtowel on the table and sitting down across from Stiles, staring at him exceptionally hard. 

“I love her,” Alex said softly, fondness in her voice. “From the day Harris brought her in to my dying day, I will always love her as my own. A child of her age should never have had to live the life she did.” 

“You saved her before she had to,” Stiles argued. 

“No,” she said quietly. “ _You_ did.” 

“I got her out,” Stiles argued. “And I mean, technically, that was you and Jackson, I was just kind of standing there. But you _saved_ her. You took her with you, when you could’ve just left her there to be someone else’s problem. You protected her, fed her, did what you had to in order to keep her from harm for _months_. Then you came here, and you’ve cared for her, and shown her kindness and love, and you’re trying to get her into school, and you’re making sure she understands right and wrong, and you’re helping her with her abilities even though they’re _so different_ from your own.” Stiles almost flailed his hands but managed to refrain. “She may have been trapped at Harris’, but you’re the reason she gets to be a kid and hopefully won’t remember her time there as anything more than a horrible dream.” 

Alex’s smile was fond, and when she stood up, she reached forward to place one hand on his cheek, and kissed his forehead in a very tender, motherly way. 

“You are a good man, Stiles Stilinski,” she said, smiling down at him before letting her hand slide away. “I always knew it, but you still manage to remind me of it every now and then. I am so very glad I was able to meet you, and honoured I can call you pack.” 

“I didn’t even do anything,” he insisted, but he smiled anyway, because Alex was amazing and he loved her, so hearing she was happy to be in the pack with him made _him_ happy. 

“You never seem to recognize any of the good you bring to the world, but maybe one day you will look back on everything you’ve done, and realize that so much change is because of you.” She moved to the oven, turning her back on him, but continued with, “Your mother may have saved the world, but you’re the reason it’s changing for the better. One day, perhaps you’ll recognize that too.” 

Stiles had no idea what to say to that, but didn’t have time to think on it because Rose practically tackled him out of his chair, slamming into him so hard he almost tipped over and just barely managed to shoot his opposite leg out to the side to stop himself from falling. 

“Stiles! Stiles! You have to come see my room too! I had to show Derek first, because it’s his _birthday_ , but I want to show you, too!” 

He managed to force a smile, mind still reeling from the words Alex had just spoken, and nodded. “Sure thing, let’s go check it out.” 

“Let’s go!” she agreed, tugging on his hand until he got to his feet and pulling him along towards her room. 

When he passed Derek in the doorway, the Werewolf smiled and kissed his cheek on his way by, and Stiles knew he’d heard what Alex had said.

That was his way of saying he agreed. 

* * *

Stiles stared down at his cuffed wrists dispassionately while the buzz of lights above him started to give him a headache. The room was far too bright, in his opinion, and he found the accommodations a little lackluster. 

He was not impressed. Not one bit. He felt like Harris had done a better job, but to be fair, Harris had been trying to get the Spark from Peter for months. This Collector had just had the Spark land in his lap, so his attempts to contain him were born out of desperation as opposed to actual preparedness. 

Cuffs. Small magically enhanced room. Guard outside the door. 

There wasn’t even a fucking _camera_. Hell, even Gerard’s cell in the basement had felt more secure than this. The guy was lucky his prized possessions didn’t escape on the regular. 

He honestly didn’t know how Alex and Jackson did this, because he was getting bored. He’d never been bored waiting for them in the car, because he was too busy panicking about their safety to _be_ bored. But here, on the inside, he was just _bored_. 

If it were up to him, they’d be gone by now and driving back the excruciatingly long drive to Beacon Hills. But it wasn’t up to him, because he was the new meat in this plan, and Alex was the point person, so he had to wait on her. 

Really, he found it somewhat funny the Collector hadn’t found it strange that Chris just _happened_ to have three rare Supernaturals to unload all at once, one of them being the Spark himself. People were so desperate for power and to boast their superiority over others that they never seemed to be smart enough to stop and think about how suspicious that was. 

Not that Stiles was complaining, but still. 

Letting his head fall back against the wall, he closed his eyes and tried to occupy his mind. It wasn’t easy, since boredom made him hungry, and all he could think about was what he wanted to eat first when he got home and went to the diner. He hoped Boyd was working, he made the _best_ grilled chicken sandwich. Stiles may have been a little obsessed with it. That and the cherry pie they had on special on Tuesdays. Not that it was Tuesday, but he was a patient man! He could wait! 

Though not long, because he really wanted that pie, and now he was sad it wasn’t Tuesday. And wow, he really _did_ think about food a lot, he probably needed a hobby or something. 

Well, really, he was hoping this whole saving Supernaturals thing could be his hobby going forward, but he honestly didn’t know how many more they had left. 

Chris’ contacts list was running dry, and even though he still knew of a few more Collectors, it wasn’t nearly as many as he knew still existed. It was a depressing thought. 

Stiles wanted to hit Schrader, but Chris still hadn’t worked out the logistics of how to do that. Schrader, he said, would _definitely_ find it suspicious to have three rares show up at the same time, _especially_ if one of them was the Spark. And his setup was a lot more extensive than any other place they’d ever hit, so he hesitated to work on a plan without at least a general idea of what they would be walking into. 

All these other Collectors tended to listen to Chris’ assessments of what to do with Alex and Jackson—and now Stiles—whereas Schrader had his own repertoire of information on all the rare and uncommon Supernaturals that existed. 

He would know that utilizing specific reinforced manacles wouldn’t work on a Metamorph. 

He would know that low doses of regular wolfsbane didn’t work on a Kanima. 

He would _know_ the Spark wouldn’t be contained with just two weak ass cuffs and a guard standing watch. 

They had to be smarter with him, and it was _frustrating_ because Stiles wanted to go and help those people in his giant mansion _now_ , but they just didn’t have enough information. They needed someone on the inside, and that was never going to happen. 

Though he also acknowledged that, as much as they were doing good, it was never permanent. They hadn’t checked up on all the Collectors they’d called the cops on, but he was sure most, if not all of them, had been released by now and were restarting their collections.

Money talked, and it was depressing. Stiles figured they’d have to cycle back around one day and start hitting the same houses again, except they’d have to do so differently given this tactic clearly wouldn’t work a second time. 

Stiles turned his head when he heard Jackson let out a loud roar, smirking slightly. 

“Showtime.” He climbed to his feet and raised both hands in front of himself, like he always did when he blew the cuffs off. He then proceeded to do so, the loud crack of the metal painful to his ears in the small room. They landed hard at his feet and he walked up to the door, stopping in front of it and bringing one hand up, flicking it easily like he was shooing away a fly. 

“Open sesame,” he said while doing so, and the electronic lock whirred automatically, the door sliding open with a small hiss. The guard stationed outside whipped around, eyes wide and gun raised, but Stiles just flicked his fingers and the man flew backwards into the wall before crumpling to the ground in a heap. 

Stiles’ gaze shifted down the corridor and he walked down a few doors, pressing one finger into the centre of the keypad outside the door and repeating, “Open sesame.” 

The lock whirred and the door hissed open, Jackson stepping out while rolling his neck, scales already crawling along his skin and one eye yellow, the other bright blue. 

“Showtime?” he asked with a small smirk. 

Stiles just shrugged in response. It had seemed appropriate. “Let me know if you need any help.” 

“I never need help,” he insisted, almost sounding offended, and then started down the corridor, looking pleased to start tearing the place apart. 

Stiles moved to one of the last doors in the hallway and repeated the same process, letting Alex out of her cell. She smiled and placed one hand lightly to his cheek while passing him, then said she’d start at the other end. 

Nodding, he moved to the cell across from hers and got that door open. There was a guy inside, sitting on the floor and hugging his knees while rocking back and forth. He looked to be in pretty bad shape, like he’d recently been abused, and he flinched when Stiles stepped into the room. 

“Can you stand?” 

Those words seemed to give the guy pause, because he braved a look up, and seemed startled at seeing Stiles. 

“Who—?”

“I’m getting you out of here,” Stiles explained, holding one hand out. “Can you stand?” 

“I—yeah.” 

“Then let’s go.” He gave his hand another shake, and the guy stared at it for a few seconds before unfolding himself and grabbing it, letting Stiles haul him to his feet. 

They exited the room and Stiles moved to the next one just as Alex was doing the same at the other end of the corridor, a slightly older guy following behind her, looking confused and terrified all at the same time. 

It went faster than Stiles had expected it to, but he supposed it was because they were three now instead of two. And really, this plan had worked well with only two people for a long time, so he should’ve known adding him was just a bonus. 

Chris’ plan was actually pretty smart, and Stiles was glad it seemed to be working every time. By telling the Collectors the wrong information on how to contain Alex and Jackson, it allowed them free reign of their abilities, which meant they could carry out their plans without any problems. 

Alex always took point, because she could use her Metamorph powers to turn into a bat, which had the best hearing range in the animal kingdom, and could use it to identify how many people were in the house, and how many of them were likely to be ‘collections’ versus guards. 

Once she had a number, she would turn human again and tell Jackson, who could easily hear her through the walls of whatever cells they were in. Upon having a number, Jackson could use his strength to break out of his cell, because low doses of regular wolfsbane didn’t do much more than give him a bad headache. 

So Jackson would break out, let Alex out, and then go through the house paralysing people one by one until everyone was incapacitated before heading back down to help Alex with freeing the rest of the people there. 

Sometimes it took longer because Jackson had to be mindful of cameras. Other times it took longer because the houses were constructed with materials that made it hard for Alex to get a solid read on how many people there were and _where_ they were. Sometimes it took longer because the cells were just a bitch to get open from the outside without the proper codes or keys. 

Sometimes it took longer, but it never failed, even when things went wrong.

The plan had always worked so far, and having Stiles there was just an added bonus at this point. He couldn’t hear like Alex and Jackson could, so when Alex had finished with her report, Jackson had roared to alert Stiles that they were good to go. It was much easier having a Spark who could change channels by waving his hand open the doors than by smashing his way out of his own cell, so it made sense for Jackson to wait on him. 

By the time they’d finished clearing the cells, Alex confirmed with the two oldest people in the group that this was everyone, and then led the way out. They all seemed uncertain and scared, like they thought maybe it would be best to turn around and head back into their cells, rather than be caught trying to escape and punished for it. Thankfully, all of them seemed hopeful this was going to work because no one turned around. 

When they reached the foyer, Jackson was already standing by the open door, phone out and texting one-handed while holding Alex and Stiles’ belongings out to them. They always had to have _some_ items on them when they were brought in, otherwise it would be obvious this was all a set up. Jackson usually got the location of their belongings from one of the people he paralysed with his venom before hunting them down so he could text their backup. 

He’d been annoyed when he and Alex had both lost their phones during the one raid that had gone south, but Peter had an app that wiped phones of his choosing under his plan, and since Alex and Jackson’s phones were under his plan, he’d just wiped them to avoid the Collector finding them again and bought them new phones. 

Conveniently, Stiles was also under his plan, but he had something like seven-hundred photos on his phone, so he would be _pissed_ if Peter ever wiped it, even if it was because he had no choice. 

He thought perhaps they should buy burner phones. He hadn’t really considered that until this moment, taking his wallet and phone from Jackson’s outstretched hand, and thinking about how he’d hate to lose everything on it. 

He had that really adorable picture of Derek from Valentine’s day where he was snuggling with Stiles’ pillow. It would be fucking _tragic_ to lose that. 

“They’re on their way,” he said without looking up from his phone. Stiles saw that he was texting Ethan and almost rolled his eyes. 

He only managed to refrain because he saw a text from Derek on his own home screen, and immediately opened his messages to answer, so he couldn’t tease Jackson when he was doing the exact same thing. 

**[Derek]**  
?

 **[Stiles]**  
all good :)  
 **[Stiles]**  
relatively easy  
 **[Stiles]**  
see ypu in like five seconds lol

Derek sent him a thumbs up and Stiles scowled down at his phone. 

**[Stiles]**  
don’t text and drive! 

He just got a dog emoji in response, which he assumed was because there wasn’t a wolf emoji. 

**[Stiles]**  
I don’t care you’re a werewolf don’t text and drive! 

That just earned him a kissy-face emoji and he sighed, shoving his phone into his pocket even as the people behind them started whispering anxiously, asking why they were hanging around, they should run, get away. 

“It’s all right,” Alex insisted calmly, using her soothing mother tone. “Everything is all right, you’re safe. All the guards have been incapacitated, you’re going to be okay.” 

“Who _are_ you?!” someone asked in a semi-hysterical-sounding whisper. 

Stiles just watched the winding path leading up to the mansion while Alex calmly explained that everything was all right and that everyone was going to be safe. He’d never been around for her speech to people before, and even now he wasn’t really paying attention to it because he was distracted watching Jackson, who was scowling at his phone and stabbing a bit more angrily at the keys. 

“What’s up, buttercup?” 

“Ethan’s being a dick,” he grumbled. 

“In what way?” 

“He’s pissed I came on this raid.” 

“Ah.” Stiles wasn’t touching that one, because he too had thought perhaps it might be best for Jackson to stay behind, for once. With his freezing spell, Stiles could very easily have incapacitated the whole house. Just walk right out the door with everyone and drive away. 

Jackson had not taken being sidelined very well and Stiles had been forced to take it back before Jackson destroyed the loft. Evidently his discovery was still a fairly sensitive topic, despite almost two weeks having passed since then. 

Stiles glanced out the door again when lights flashed and smiled when the Mustang rounded the bend first, followed by a bus. 

He’d always joked with Peter about having to buy a school bus, and had laughed for about ten minutes upon discovering that he actually _had_. 

The higher up in the chain they went, the more people they saved. This raid alone was bringing sixteen people, though even as the bus approached, five of them were telling Alex they would be fine on their own and they passed Stiles and Jackson quickly to run out the door, racing through the grass across the large expanse that comprised of the ‘front yard.’ 

When the Mustang and the bus stopped, nobody exited while Alex continued to explain the situation to the eleven who remained. Once they seemed fairly set on sticking around—though two asked if they could call someone once they reached their destination—Alex explained who was in the bus waiting for them, and who was in the car. 

As soon as everyone was on the same page, and there were no random freakouts or misunderstandings, Jackson led the way out to the bus, banging once on the door to get it open and climbing in. Stiles knew he’d rather drive home in the Mustang, but on one of the last raids they’d done, someone had freaked over the fact that Alex and Jackson had gone into the car while the rest of them were loaded onto the bus, thinking it was all another trap. 

It had caused a bit of a panic, so Jackson had conceded defeat and he and Alex rode in the bus with the rest of them, Peter and Chris usually alternating in who drove. This was Stiles’ first raid with them, but nobody in his pack would let him get on the bus, so he hoped two out of three would be okay for the newbies. 

He waited until the last person had exited, Alex bringing up the rear, then glanced back into the silent house behind him before shutting the front door and walking down the steps towards the Mustang. He climbed in while the others were still filing onto the bus and leaned over to kiss Derek lightly while slamming his door. 

When Derek raised his eyebrows in inquiry, Stiles shrugged. 

“It was okay. A little boring, actually.” 

He got an unimpressed look for that, and Stiles just grinned. He knew Derek was secretly thrilled. Stiles _finally_ felt confident in his abilities. He could do almost all magic with ease, now. 

“Home time?” 

Derek tapped the wheel once while watching the last person board the bus behind him, then eased the car around, driving through the perfectly manicured lawn without a care in the world, and turning to head back down the hill. The bus behind them followed slowly, digging deeper grooves into the dirt, and then lumbering along loudly behind them. 

“How were things for you?” Stiles asked, leaning back in his seat and turning his head to stare at Derek. 

His boyfriend shrugged in response.

“Miss me?” he teased. 

Derek just shrugged again, and grinned when Stiles let out an affronted sound and smacked him. He knew Derek was probably stressed out the whole time Stiles had been in the house, but thankfully he seemed _less_ worried than he would’ve been before the whole Argent fiasco in September. 

It made sense, considering the difference in his magic since then. 

When they reached the bottom of the long drive, Derek turned to head towards home, the bus following along behind them. Stiles frowned when a long line of black SUVs passed them coming from the opposite direction. Derek didn’t react to them, continuing along like he didn’t want to bring attention to himself, and Stiles frowned when he looked in his side mirror and could _just_ make out one of the cars turning into the drive they’d just left from around the bus. 

“Huh,” he said with a frown, confused. He didn’t know why, but that seemed a little weird and suspicious. 

Derek grunted in inquiry, asking what was up. 

“Nothing,” Stiles said, settling more comfortably in his seat and reaching into the glove box for some snacks so he could heal up his wrists. The cars weren’t important, so he wasn’t going to worry about them. 

Everything was fine. Literally, everything was perfectly amazing, and he loved his life. 

* * *

“Hello Mr. Stilinski.” 

Stiles paused with his burger halfway to his mouth, staring up at the man who’d stopped beside his table. It wasn’t unusual for people to come by when they saw him eating alone lately. Most of them were just checking in, seeing how he was doing. A few sat down to chat, but most just stayed standing and made small talk with him before heading back to their own tables. 

Everyone in town seemed really happy to see him out and about on his own, because they knew it meant he wasn’t at risk anymore. Sure, people would always come for him, but at least he was confident in his magic now, and he had a whole town at his back, and an amazing pack at his side. Really, he was fairly certain he would continue to live his life without any more problems.

Barring Mr. Official standing in front of him. He had no idea who this guy was, but he looked familiar. Something was niggling at the back of Stiles’ mind, like he should recognize him, but didn’t. His eidetic memory was failing him, which had never happened before. All he could deduce was that he’d apparently forcibly forgotten this person for some specific reason. 

“It’s been a long time,” he said, then motioned the booth across from him. “Mind if I sit?” 

“It’s a free country,” Stiles said, still eying him suspiciously. He really _was_ familiar, something about his voice, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He glanced towards the kitchen to see if Boyd had noticed the guy join him. 

He had, because he was now standing right in front of the window with his arms crossed, watching them intently like a hawk. A few of the other patrons had shifted to pay attention, like they wanted to be sure this unknown person wasn’t going to cause problems. 

Stiles appreciated that, and he _really_ appreciated that Boyd didn’t have his phone out.

Yet, anyway. 

He knew the only reason Boyd hadn’t immediately called Derek or Peter was because they were out of town with Alex and Rose. Apparently there was an ice rink that just opened up in the next town over and Rose was _adamant_ the four of them had to go. Stiles wasn’t invited because he always hogged Derek’s attention, so she only wanted Derek alone or Stiles alone, they were never allowed to be together. 

Stiles was fine with that, he still found Rose to be hilariously adorable. Besides, Derek apparently sucked at ice skating. Stiles was sad to be missing that. 

“I’m glad your guard dog isn’t here, for once. Makes for easier conversation without his condescension.” 

“I think you’re misinformed about which one of us is condescending,” Stiles said, offering a sarcastic smile and finally following through on the bite he was taking of his burger. “Though you should probably also consider why I’m sitting here alone if you think you have a chance against me.” 

“I wouldn’t presume to be a match for you, Mr. Stilinski.” 

“That’s good,” Stiles said, swiping his thumb across the corner of his mouth and sucking at the ketchup he’d collected on it. “Rumour has it I’m pretty badass now.” 

“Indeed, which is why I’m here.” 

“Hm.” Stiles continued chewing the bite he’d taken, still staring at the guy, then motioned him with his burger. “Refresh my memory again, would you? I’m usually really good with faces, but yours I’m having trouble placing.” 

“Agent Kincaid, CIA.” 

The words made him freeze as he thought back to the last time he’d seen this man. He’d been threatening to hurt Derek, tasing him, calling Stiles property. He was the reason Stiles had gone Void the first time. Or, almost gone Void. 

Stiles very slowly put his burger down, then folded his hands together and placed his chin on top of them, expression hardening. “I remember now. You were the one who threatened to take Derek away and not return him in one piece. You’re the reason I found out what a Void was.” He smiled at him unkindly. “You’re pretty ballsy for showing up here again. If you’re about to tell me Derek is in your custody, we’re going to have a problem.” 

“Your dog is fine,” Kincaid said coolly, clearly wishing the conversation hadn’t taken this turn so quickly. “We were only watching to determine when we could speak with you alone.”

“Forgive me if I don’t trust you,” Stiles said, smile all teeth. He sat up straight again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. Kincaid looked annoyed, but didn’t stop him, probably because he knew he had to play his cards right or Stiles would teleport him to another country.

He could do that now. He’d been practising. Jackson tended to be his most frequent victim since he always showed up at inopportune times and Stiles just threw him out of the loft and back to the Hale house. 

He still wasn’t good at the landing part of that spell though. He’d once shoved Jackson back into the Hale house in the shower. 

While Cora was using it. 

Neither of them had been very happy with Stiles for a while. 

In his defence, he hadn’t done it on purpose, but that was hardly the point in their eyes. 

Stiles scrolled through his contacts, actually a little surprised to notice for the first time how many there were in there. He’d always had some members of the Order and the whole pack but now, there were so, so many more. Satomi’s pack, for one. More members of the Order that had helped out along the way. A surprisingly large number of people in town, which he hadn’t given much thought to recently. A lot of the new Supernaturals they’d saved and protected over the past few months. 

And Hunters. He actually had some Hunters, too. Not many, but a few. Allison and Chris, of course. But also others. Some of Chris’ contacts who were on his side, who didn’t agree with the way things were going, who thought that Hunters shouldn’t just target Supernaturals because they _were_ Supernaturals, but should target those who actually caused harm to others. 

It was horrendously disorienting to realize how many people he actually had in his life now. Not unpleasant, just a little surprising given how he’d spent his formative years. 

Scrolling through his impressive list to the applicable name, he tapped on it and placed the phone to his ear. It rang twice before a jovial voice spoke down the line, a laugh clear in his tone. 

_“Little Spark, you are missing quite the experience. Rose is teaching Derek how to ice skate. Don’t worry, we’re recording it for you. And for the pack in general. Everyone will have the opportunity to view their Alpha schooled by a child.”_

Stiles heard a growl in the background, evidently Derek unhappy about the teasing, but that just made him relax slightly, exhaling in relief. Everyone sounded fine. Peter was his usual asshole self. Derek sounded embarrassed and annoyed. Presumably Alex and Rose were both fine or Peter would’ve said something. 

“You’re still at the ice rink?” 

_“Indeed. It’s rather busy, so we won’t be staying much longer. Rose is beginning to feel a little trapped, it appears. Well, two hours is more than enough time, and I’m sure you’re eager for your Alpha to return.”_

“You don’t see anyone suspicious, do you?” Stiles asked, staring right at Kincaid while he spoke. The agent looked impatient, but not worried. He obviously wanted time to speak alone with Stiles before Derek came back. He wasn’t going to get that, because even if it wasn’t Derek, Stiles was going to keep Peter on the phone with him because he didn’t trust the man who treated him like property and threatened to hurt Derek. 

Peter’s voice lost some of its cheer when he spoke next. _“What is it? Who’s with you?”_

Stiles pulled the phone away from his ear, put it on speaker, and set it down in front of him on the table, folding his hands together. “So. What was it you wanted to discuss?” 

Kincaid looked ten different kinds of pissed, but he was smart enough not to make a scene. Stiles was pretty sure he’d noticed Boyd lingering by the window, not to mention the looks all the people in the diner were sending them. He was clearly a man smart enough to know when to pick his battles, and this was not a battle he would win. 

“We’ve come with a proposition for you, Mr. Stilinski.”

 _“Kincaid, is that you?”_ Peter asked, sounding delighted, but the crack Stiles heard down the line suggested he’d broken the screen or the case of his phone with how tightly he was gripping it. _“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I thought I’d gotten rid of you once and for all after your last visit when you almost doomed us all.”_

Kincaid’s expression hardened, but he continued like Peter hadn’t said anything. Stiles wondered what had happened the last time, but he knew Peter was behind the CIA leaving him alone.

Peter was really scary that way, in that he knew important people and had ways of getting things out of them. Like getting his father’s body back through the FBI. Like getting funding from the mayor to help build all the houses out in the preserve. Like getting Kincaid to fuck off and not come back. 

Until now, anyway.

“We’ve been made aware of all of your movements the past few months.” 

Stiles squinted suspiciously at him, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms. “You say ‘made aware’ in a way that suggests you’ve been watching me.” His jaw clenched tightly. “Were you there when they went after Derek?”

Kincaid held one hand up quickly. “No,” he said emphatically. “We were not present, but were made aware of it after the fact. When the FBI came to collect Argent and the other Hunters, what transpired came to light and we added it to our files.” 

“Files,” Stiles said, letting out a small, bitter laugh. “I guess it makes sense I’d be on a watch list. So tell me, _agent_ ,” Stiles uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, hands flat on the table, “what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come with a proposition, as I said. You’ve done good work within the Supernatural community, but there are still laws.” 

“Haven’t broken any,” Stiles insisted, smiling viciously. “We were very careful.” 

“I believe Adrian Harris might disagree.” 

“That wasn’t me, and it was self-defence,” Stiles argued, not liking where this was going. If the CIA started threatening Jackson, Kincaid was going to find himself in a world of trouble. “I’m not someone you want to cross, but I’m sure you already know that.” 

“It would be in your best interest not to threaten me,” Kincaid said coolly. 

“Oh, I’m not threatening you yet. Trust me, when I get to that point, you’ll know.” Stiles could practically _feel_ Peter’s smugness down the line. The man hadn’t said anything in a while, but Stiles figured he was just letting him fight his own battle. Which he appreciated. Honestly, he’d only called to make sure they were okay, and had kept him on the line because he liked keeping Peter informed of things like this.

Not to mention it annoyed Kincaid, so that was also a win. 

“You have the ability to freely go places we cannot,” Kincaid said after a brief, brittle silence. It was clear he didn’t like Stiles, but he recognized how useful he was, so he was trying not to piss him off. 

Probably a good thing, Stiles’ lunch was already ruined, and he wasn’t at all happy about that. 

“I’m not a spy,” Stiles insisted dryly. “If you’re thinking of sending me to fucking Indonesia to spy for you—”

“We want to extend an offer that is mutually beneficial to both sides,” Kincaid interrupted. Stiles figured he was feeling the pressure, since a few more people in the diner had shifted closer and were watching them intently. Boyd was practically burning holes into Kincaid’s skull. 

If he’d come here thinking Stiles was the only person to worry about, he was very wrong. Because this town was not at all what he thought it was.

Not anymore. 

“All right, I’ll bite.” Stiles motioned for him to continue. 

“We have a Supernatural division which is geared towards the protection and rescue of rare and endangered Supernatural beings. Case and point.” He motioned Stiles vaguely. Stiles just offered him another unkind smile, since Kincaid had never done anything for him. It was all the Hales. 

Their one job had been to protect his dad, and they hadn’t even managed to do _that_. 

“Being invited into places where we have the opportunity to help others is proving more challenging. The inner circles of Collectors is very tight, and they do not often let others enter. We have had no luck with gaining the upper hand. You, however, appear to have an in with almost all the people we’ve been watching over the years. The number of arrests we’ve managed to make in the past month alone have been more than the past three years.”

Stiles frowned, because when the hell had the CIA ever shown up to help arrest people that—

“The SUVs,” Stiles said. Kincaid looked startled. “You were the black SUVs.” 

“Yes,” he said slowly, like he wasn’t pleased to hear Stiles say those words. “I’m—surprised. Those vehicles belong to the Supernatural division specifically. There is powerful magic cast on them to make people ignore their presence. No one even really sees them.” He eyed Stiles appraisingly. “But you could.” 

Stiles remembered that every time he saw them, he dismissed them easily, like they weren’t of importance. He _noticed_ them, but he didn’t _react_ to them. That meant the magic worked on him, to some degree, but not entirely. 

He didn’t want Kincaid to know that though, so he just shrugged and said, “Spark,” in way of explanation. 

Kincaid inclined his head slightly, taking that answer for what it was. 

Stiles wondered if Schrader was on the CIA’s list. If he was, then they would be thrilled to know he was also on the pack’s. Not that they were going to hit him any time soon. Even if they _had_ a plan—which they didn’t—Chris insisted the holiday season was always insanely tight security-wise. They’d have to wait for the new year, at minimum. 

“So what you’re saying is—we’ve been going in to do all the dirty work, and you’ve been getting all the glory,” Stiles insisted. 

Kincaid’s eye twitched, but his voice was calm when he spoke next. “I would’ve thought you’d be more pleased to learn that the people you took out were behind bars after you left. The police were of little use, given most of them could be paid off.” 

It was true, but Stiles wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “And this proposition of yours?” 

He shrugged expansively. “Same deal. You and yours would enter the facility, incapacitate them from the inside, and we would enter to arrest them.” 

Stiles thought about that for a second. It was true that so far all they’d really managed to do was get people out. Sure, they crippled the Collector and usually calls were made for them to be arrested, but like Kincaid had said, most of the cops they called to arrest the Collectors were either too corrupt to do anything or the Collectors had enough money to make bail and be on their merry way. 

More often than not, all he and the pack managed to do was save the people currently present, not actually stop the Collectors from starting over. But Kincaid’s words suggested a lot of the people they’d gone after were being picked up by this special division of the CIA and put in a dark hole somewhere.

Stiles couldn’t deny the thought appealed to him. Going in and wreaking havoc, having the Collectors know they’d get away with it, and then the CIA swooping in at the last second to take them to prison where their money meant nothing. It would at least mean nobody else risked being taken by the same people. 

But there were still some concerns for Stiles with this plan. 

“How do we know once we do what you ask, you won’t just insist the Collector’s property becomes your own?” Stiles demanded, narrowing his eyes. “You seem to like powerful things, and I’m not going to let you walk away with the people the Collectors are holding for their own entertainment. Trading one cage for another doesn’t really sit well with me, considering.” 

“They wouldn’t be under arrest. We wouldn’t have any grounds to hold them.” 

“You could always find ground,” Stiles argued. “Knowing you. Something that you can use to make them have to go with you. I mean, you tried with me.” His smile was unkind. “Good thing I scared you away.” 

Kincaid didn’t seem to like that reminder, but he wasn’t stupid enough to rise to Stiles’ bait on the matter. 

“We are willing to allow them sanctuary with us, or with you. Whichever they prefer.” Kincaid reached for the briefcase he’d set down on the seat beside him. The snaps clicked open and he pulled a file out, sliding it across the table to Stiles. “We are attempting to meet you in the middle, Mr. Stilinski. We would like to have a mutually beneficial relationship. All we ask for in return is your assistance should we need it.” 

Stiles stared down at the folder. It was tempting. Really, really tempting. Having the CIA on their side would be huge. They would be able to help a lot of people, and it sounded like Kincaid had far more Collectors lined up than Chris did. On top of that, when they finally did go after Schrader, they had more of a chance of actually succeeding in getting him, and anyone else he has on his side, behind bars. They stood to do more good than anything else having people like this in their corner. 

But... 

_“We’ll be in touch.”_

Stiles was glad he wasn’t the only one to jump. It seemed both he _and_ Kincaid had forgotten Peter was on the phone. He’d been silent up until now, so it made sense, but Stiles was still a little embarrassed. 

_“I take it you don’t need an escort out of town.”_

“I’m sure I can find my own way,” Kincaid said coldly, buttoning up one button on his suit jacket and getting back to his feet, pulling his briefcase over and staring down at Stiles. “Do think on it, Mr. Stilinski. We stand to gain much more by working together.” 

“Like Peter said, we’ll be in touch. Now get out of my town before I expel you from it.” 

Kincaid’s smile was cold, but he obediently turned, giving Boyd a scathing look, and made his way out of the diner. Every single pair of eyes followed him out, and the atmosphere remained charged up until the door shut behind him. As soon as it did, everyone seemed to relax and go about their business, pretending nothing had happened. 

A few people were shooting Stiles looks, as if making sure he was okay, but looked away relatively quickly when it became clear he was fine, just a little pissed off. 

Picking his phone up, he took it off speaker and put it to his ear, flipping open the file with his other hand. There were pages and pages of what looked like some kind of contract. That didn’t bode well, and he knew he wasn’t going to be signing anything without Peter reviewing it. 

When he got to the last page, he paused when he saw two places to sign on their side. One was his name—in full, no “Stiles” in sight—but the other merely said “Hale Pack Representative.” 

Because of course, they knew that Derek couldn’t sign his name, but evidently wanted the Hales to acknowledge that this was something everyone had to agree on. It was probably to ensure they wouldn’t kick up a fuss if the CIA tried to make Stiles do something he didn’t want to do. After all, they could point at the contract and remind the Hales that they’d signed off on it, too.

There were three signatures below for the CIA to sign. One was for Kincaid, who was listed as being the agent in charge of their partnership, and the one beside it was for the head of the Supernatural division. The last one at the bottom was for the Director of the CIA. 

“I didn’t feel him cross the border,” Stiles said into the phone, staring down at the signature page. Nobody had signed yet, and Stiles assumed it was because the CIA wouldn’t sign off until Stiles and a Hale did. 

_“That only means he didn’t come intending to cause harm to any of us,”_ Peter said. _“It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an ulterior motive.”_

That was true. After all, his barrier around the town was a little too specific sometimes compared to the ones he had around the loft. The town barrier picked up Hunters, which was why Chris and Allison always registered. It tracked the pack, because Stiles liked knowing when they were coming and going for security purposes. And it caught people coming in intending to do harm to him or his. Kincaid not registering just meant he wasn’t planning on harming anyone, and he wasn’t secretly a Hunter. 

Not that Stiles ever would’ve assumed he was, given he’d been one of the details with him, meaning he’d been living with Laura or Derek—or both—when he was last on rotation. 

“He gave me a contract.” He shut the folder and slid it a bit further from himself. “You seem good with things like this. You should probably be the one reviewing it.” 

_“I’ll contact the family lawyer and go over it with them. Once we have a better understanding of what they want, I’ll speak to you and Derek.”_

“Sure. I’ll drop it off at the house.” 

_“We’ll be heading back in a moment, Rose appears done for the day. You’ll have Derek back shortly.”_

“Thanks Peter. See you in a bit.” 

When he went to hang up, he paused at Peter’s voice.

_“Oh, and little Spark?”_

“What’s up?” 

He could hear the smile in the man’s voice when he said, _“Well done.”_

Hearing praise was less painful now than it used to be, probably because Gerard was behind bars and Stiles was trying to focus on the positive. It still made him flinch sometimes when it came unexpectedly, but knowing he was sitting alone in a diner with Kincaid across from him trying to strong-arm him into something that might not be a good idea, and he _still_ managed to hold his ground... 

Yeah, that felt good. 

“Thanks Peter. Hurry back with my boyfriend, I miss him.”

 _“You two are impossible.”_ Peter hung up. 

Stiles did, as well, then pulled his burger and fries back over. They were cold, and almost not worth eating, which probably explained why Boyd appeared at his elbow with a new plate for him, offering a small smile before taking the old one away. Stiles would’ve felt bad about the waste, but even as he headed back for the kitchen, Boyd took a bite out of the cold burger and disappeared through the swinging door. 

He had the best pack, really. Couldn’t have asked for a better one. 

* * *

Predictably, the contract was heavily in the CIA’s favour, and a lot of the verbiage used was to back Stiles into a corner and basically force him into things he didn’t want to do. They were subtle in their attempts, and they at least made reference to what they wouldn’t ask of him—lethal force against another person, for example—but they still weren’t particularly fair. 

Stiles had been disappointed for all of one hour, because that was how long it took Peter to come up with a solution. It was quite brilliant, if he was being honest, because he got a phonecall asking for a meeting only an additional hour after that with Kincaid. 

Derek went with him, and when they showed up at the lawyer’s office where the meeting was taking place, he was surprised to see Scott’s father along with a very disgruntled Kincaid. Apparently Peter’s plan was to involve the FBI and ask if they wanted in on the action, since they’d already helped multiple times over the past two years, and seemed fairer with regard to what they expected from Stiles in return for their services. 

Pitting the FBI and the CIA against each other had been a good call, because the more one side offered, the more the other tried to outdo them. Eventually, they came to a three-way agreement where everyone could benefit from Stiles’ abilities, and nobody could make him do what he didn’t want to do. 

The lawyer drafted up a new contract for Agents McCall and Kincaid to take to their respective superiors and legal teams, and they didn’t hear back for three days. When they finally did, it was through the lawyer. Stiles knew there had to have been some back and forth between the various legal teams and the family lawyer, but he assumed Peter was handling the pack side of things. Stiles trusted him, so he didn’t worry about him offering up anything unreasonable. 

When the lawyer finally touched based with Stiles directly, he knew that meant everyone had come to an agreement, and he stopped at the loft with Peter to drop off three copies of the contracts to be signed. The ones he had were all already signed by both the FBI and CIA, so all they had to do was sign off, keep a copy for themselves, and send the other two back to each of the agencies. 

Peter, Stiles and Derek went over the contract again with the lawyer, since it had been redrafted by the other two agencies a few times over the course of the three days and Peter wanted to ensure everyone present was all right with the changes, but for the most part, the body hadn’t been altered too much. Stiles felt nervous holding the pen, but he eventually signed off. The contract was only good for one year so really, if anything went wrong, they couldn’t keep him in their pocket for an extended period of time. 

Peter signed off on behalf of the Hale pack when Derek confirmed he was fine with the contract. The lawyer used Stiles’ printer to photocopy the signed contract, made two notarized copies—one for Stiles and Derek and one for Peter—and kept the original for safekeeping. He advised them he’d send the other two originals to the CIA and FBI and Stiles watched him exit the loft, Peter following after him to lock up behind him.

It was scary, realizing he was potentially going to be used as a weapon, but the contract had been very specifically worded so that he didn’t have to do anything that went against his moral compass. For the most part, it centred on the two agencies being involved in any of the pack’s rescue missions, but also allowed for them to call on Stiles when they had need of his magic. 

He really hoped it wouldn’t be too often, because he wasn’t a huge fan of how the government ran things. The only solace he had was that the contract demanded any time Stiles was called out, he was allowed to bring at minimum one person from his pack with him, and at maximum four. They’d argued that point in case he was asked to do something that posed a danger to him or his psyche. Having Derek—who would always be his one—would be beneficial, but sometimes he needed people who could snap him out of whatever funk he was in. 

Peter and Jackson were his two top choices, but he wasn’t opposed to Kira or Boyd, or even Scott. He’d have liked Satomi, but the wording was specific to _his_ pack, and much as he loved her, they weren’t one pack. 

Stiles stood at the window with his arms crossed, watching Peter climb back into his car and slowly ease out of the lot. He had to move slowly because there was a lot of black ice on the road, and while he was a Werewolf and would likely survive a horrific accident, other people around might not. 

It was getting colder by the day, but they still didn’t have any snow. Stiles was thankful for that, snow was beautiful, but so, so cold. 

Derek came up beside him to see what he was looking at, then cocked an eyebrow at him when he saw nothing, Peter long gone by the time he’d joined him. 

“Just don’t like the thought of signing my life away.” Stiles shrugged one shoulder. “At least it’s a paid gig, I guess. Still...” 

Derek watched him for a moment, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into his side and giving him one tight squeeze. He was probably thinking the same thing as Stiles, that this was just reminding him of all the things he’d done with the Argents. 

He knew it wouldn’t be the same thing, because the Argents had been awful people and had hurt and killed numerous innocent people. But this still didn’t sit well with him. He supposed something like this never would. 

When they stayed standing by the window for too long, Derek ended up pulling at Stiles, forcing him to turn and leading him back towards the couch. He shoved him onto it lightly, then went to his desk to grab his laptop. Stiles didn’t understand at first, but when Derek sat down and clicked on the bookmarked page for universities Stiles had been looking at in the area, he realized what the goal was. 

Distraction. Because Stiles was going to obsess and Derek didn’t want that. 

Sighing and conceding defeat, he pulled the laptop onto his lap and angled it slightly so Derek could see it, as well. 

He was planning on enrolling for the fall semester next year, but he hadn’t actually put in any applications yet. They were all due mid-December and he knew if he procrastinated he would just talk himself out of going and miss the deadline. He wasn’t worried about getting in, considering his grades and, oh yeah, he was the Spark, but he didn’t want to get any preferential treatment and accepted late just _because_ he was the Spark. 

They’d both been talking about the various schools Stiles had been checking out the past few weeks, but he still wasn’t sure which one he wanted to go to. That was probably more because he didn’t know what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. 

“I like these two,” Stiles said after a few hours of looking through the various schools. “This one’s not in the State, but I can take all the courses online and only need to show up in person for the finals. This one also has a lot of online courses, it’s close to Beacon Hills, and most of the pack is going there, so proximity-wise it’s a good fit.”

Derek flicked him hard in the forehead for that and Stiles scowled, rubbing at it, annoyed. 

“What? There’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay close to home.” 

He got a real look for that, Derek silently telling him not to think about that and to actually look at the schools seriously. 

“I _am_ looking seriously,” he insisted. “I just also know what I want. I’d rather stay close to home, so if I can get into this school,” he motioned the one out of State with online courses, “that would be my ideal. I like the school and they have some good courses. But if I don’t get in, my backup is this one.” He motioned the other one that most of the younger people in the pack were attending. “It might not be as interesting on the courses, but I’d rather be somewhere I feel comfortable than go to a school on the other side of the country and feel anxious being so far away.” 

Derek let out a small sigh, like he hated that Stiles wasn’t willing to branch out, but to be fair, every time Stiles tried to do that, it blew up in his face. If there were courses of interest in the few he’d found in New Mexico, he’d have given them more thought, too. Satomi’s pack was there, and he knew Derek would be with him regardless of where he went, but having people he knew and a familiar environment was kind of what he wanted for his university life. 

He’d spent his whole life moving around every few months, he wanted the ability to just _stay_. To have a home, and stay there forever. With the pack.

With Derek. 

“What do you want to do?” Stiles asked, turning to Derek. “With your future, I mean. Like, what are you interested in?” 

Derek watched him for a moment, like he was debating answering, then shifted his gaze away to stare at the far wall. One hand reached up and slowly rubbed at his throat, and Stiles felt a spike of anger pierce through him. 

“I’m getting it back,” he insisted, Derek’s gaze returning to him once more. “That curse? I’m breaking it. I don’t care if it takes me five years, or ten, or _twenty_. I don’t care if it takes me a hundred. I’m breaking that curse. So when I do, what are you feeling? You want to go to university?” 

He could tell the topic was making Derek a little sad, because he honestly believed he was never going to get his voice back and he didn’t like thinking about it as if he could. Stiles wasn’t willing to give up hope on that, though. He _would_ get Derek’s voice back, so he wanted him to be ready for the future when he finally managed to speak again. 

Eventually, Derek took the laptop from Stiles. He couldn’t type, but he clicked through the website for the university the rest of the pack was going to and went to their courses list. He pointed out a few of the math courses and some English literature. 

That made sense, he knew Derek liked to read, and while he hadn’t known about the numbers, everyone had their favourite class. Apparently Derek’s was math, because he was a weirdo. 

“If your dream job is to be an accountant, I might have to break up with you.” 

Derek gave him an annoyed look and Stiles just laughed and kissed him lightly in apology, taking the laptop back and scrolling through the sciences faculty so they could look at all the math courses available. 

He knew he was probably getting ahead of himself. Derek was still cursed, and they had no guarantee it would ever be broken. But Stiles didn’t want to think about this being how Derek stayed for the rest of his life. He wanted to be optimistic, and believe that somehow, they could break this curse. That he would get to hear Derek’s voice one day.

It was weird to imagine he’d known Derek over two years—it would be three next summer—and he’d never actually heard him speak. He was jealous of everyone else in the pack who’d heard his voice, and a part of him wanted to find out if there were any videos of Derek when he was younger. 

The only reason he never asked was because he didn’t want to make Derek think he wasn’t worthwhile unless he could speak. That was never something Stiles thought about, it was only ever about wanting him to feel whole again. Besides, videos of Derek before Kate would probably make him cry. He knew Derek had changed, because Stiles had also changed since his time with the Argents. They’d both gotten messed up by that family in their own ways, and he didn’t want to see a young and happy Derek, smiling and laughing, and compare him to the Derek from today. 

That wasn’t fair to Derek, because he’d already come a long way in the two years they’d been together. There was also the fact that Derek had never been able to talk about what had happened to him with Kate. Everyone knew, but he’d never actually had the ability to discuss it and come to terms with it. Even Stiles had been able to do that, and it was unfair Derek hadn’t after all these years. 

Kate might be in jail, but Derek still didn’t have closure. He still didn’t have his life back, and he was still hesitant and scared of moving anything forward with Stiles. 

And Stiles respected that, and was never going to push him. But he wasn’t going to pretend Derek was going to be stuck without a voice forever either, so he’d rather plan for the positive than wallow and dwell in the negative. 

Besides, this was helping take his mind off the contract he’d just signed, so it was worthwhile. 

They were still perusing all the different options available for Derek—despite how much Derek kept trying to focus back on him—when the distinct sound of the door downstairs slamming met their ears. Stiles was sure Derek was aware of their guest long before they’d entered the building, but given he hadn’t reacted, Stiles assumed it was Jackson.

It almost always was.

When the loft door slid open, sure enough, Jackson walked in, giving them both an annoyed look for being all cuddly on the couch. He and Ethan were being all cuddly lately too, but apparently they’d gotten into a fight about something related to the houses in the Preserve so Jackson was anti-cuddles at the moment. 

“Get your gross asses off the couch, we’re going to dinner and a movie.” 

“I don’t remember making plans for that,” Stiles informed him with an impish smile. 

Jackson flipped him off and hurled Stiles’ hoodie at him with remarkably good aim. It hit Stiles in the face, but he just pulled it off into his lap and looked at Derek. When the man shrugged, denoting he didn’t mind either way, Stiles sighed explosively and got to his feet, yanking his hoodie on over his long-sleeved shirt. It was _cold_ outside! His Werewolf heater of a boyfriend didn’t save him from windchill! 

“When are you and Ethan gonna make up? You’re intolerable when you’re grumpy,” Stiles informed him. Jackson just flipped him off again while Derek went upstairs to grab some socks. “You buy him anything for Christmas yet?” 

“Why would I get that asshole a present?” Jackson demanded, crossing his arms defensively. 

“I’ll take that as you not knowing what to get him. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” Stiles slapped him in the arm after getting his shoes on and waited for Derek. It didn’t take them long to get organized and leave the loft, heading out of the building. 

Derek sighed and looked to the sky for patience when he saw Peter’s car. He pointed at it, giving Jackson a look and raising his eyebrows. 

“I don’t speak idiot,” Jackson snarled back. 

“He’s telling you to bring the car back to the house before Peter notices you stole it again. We’ll meet you there.” Stiles headed for the Mustang, ignoring Jackson flipping him off again. 

They made quick work of getting themselves organized in their respective vehicles, and Derek followed Jackson back to the Hale house to drop off Peter’s car so they could head out in the Mustang together. 

While they drove, Stiles tilted his head as he stared at the passing scenery, watching all the lights dance off the various windows. It really was almost Christmas again. In two days, it would be his official anniversary of his escape from Gerard. It felt so short, but he supposed that had to do with the man showing up in September. 

He didn’t want to think about Gerard, so instead he thought about Christmas, turning to Derek. 

“What do you want for Christmas this year?” 

Without missing a beat, Derek took one hand off the wheel and poked at Stiles’ cheek without even looking at him.

“Sap,” Stiles insisted, batting his hand away. “I’m serious. I want to get you something you want. And I’m not buying you another guitar, that’s a cop-out.” 

They turned into the Preserve, Derek saying nothing. As they approached the house, Derek slowed to give Jackson time to park and climb out, but before the other Werewolf made it to the car, Derek turned to look at him and pressed one hand to Stiles’ chest. 

“You’ve already given me what I want,” the action said. 

Stiles felt his chest clench at the look on Derek’s face and he turned away from him to scowl out the window. “You’re such a sap,” he muttered again. 

He heard Derek chuckle as Jackson climbed into the back, bitching about how tight space was and demanding Stiles either move up or switch spots with him. 

Stiles said nothing, still staring out the window, feeling his chest ache at the idea that Derek was happy only as long as he was beside him. He wanted Derek to have everything he’d ever wanted, and fucking hell, now that he was the Spark, _really_ the Spark, he was going to make sure he gave Derek whatever he wanted. 

Including his voice. He was not giving up on that, no matter what Derek said. 

Christmas should be interesting. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been (politely) told to advise people that the reason the chapters are going up later and later is because I am editing and re-writing every single one every day as I post them because I was supposed to be done, but apparently I'm not because of an inadequate ending. So basically every chapter since 17 has had an additional 10k-15k words added to it daily which may be why it is a bit disjointed at times. I am doing this while working full time, having a long commute, and having a social life. If anyone finds it to be extremely dragging or boring or full of filler, that's why, and I'm sorry, but I can only please so many people, I'm not a machine.  
> It's now 12:18am and I'm going to bed, goodnight o/ (and yes, the irony of me hounding you all to sleep is not lost on me)


	22. The One Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys <3 I'm doing much better today, sorry for my semi-meltdown |D <3 You guys are awesome <3

Stiles tried really hard to smile whenever he knew people were looking at him, pulling him into conversations, drunkenly hanging off him, thrusting random presents at him. He wanted to smile, because he loved these people, and he enjoyed spending time with them, and it was fucking _Christmas_ and they were having a good time. 

He really wanted to be happy, but it was too hard. 

Stiles had not, in fact, managed to get Derek’s voice back for today. Not unexpected, considering he knew he was being unreasonable about it given he’d only had a little over two weeks since firmly deciding that would be Derek’s Christmas present. He wasn’t going to break a curse in two weeks that he’d been working on for two and a half years, but he’d been hopeful.

In the end, he’d just settled with getting him a guitar case, since Derek kept damaging the poor thing whenever he brought it with him out of the house. He also found some online music courses and a healthy recipe book, which he’d mostly bought because he figured Derek would be thrilled Stiles was trying not to kill himself with sugar. 

He’d seemed really excited about all three items, kissing Stiles and immediately flipping through the recipes for interesting things to make, but it still didn’t sit well with him. He hated that he hadn’t managed to give him the one thing he was positive he really wanted. 

Derek kept insisting it was _him_ he wanted, which he already had, but Stiles just... he felt like he needed to do more. He was the Spark, he should be able to do anything, and he hated that the one thing in the world he wanted to do for Derek seemed to be the one thing he _couldn’t_ do. 

“Everything okay, little Spark?” 

Stiles turned to Peter, automatically forcing the smile back onto his face. He knew it likely wouldn’t work on him, because Peter was some kind of freaky mind-reader, but he tried. 

“Just thinking.” He took a sip of his hot chocolate, then winced because it had long ago gone cold. Cold hot chocolate was not the same as chocolate milk. He felt like it should be, but it really, really wasn’t. 

“Hm.” Peter didn’t call him on it and just turned to look out at all the people in the house alongside Stiles.

It was the original pack, along with the few who basically _were_ original pack at this point. Jackson, Alex and Rose, the twins. Even Allison and Chris had been invited, both of whom seemed to be really happy about it. Chris had spent most of the night chatting with Alex and Melissa, and Allison was sitting on Scott’s lap while she and Lydia talked about going up to the new lakehouse Lydia’s parents had bought. Cora had retreated to spending time with Erica, Kira and Isaac, but she at least seemed to be less and less offended every time Allison and Chris were in her general line of sight, so it was an improvement. 

It felt weird sometimes, having to split their pack for specific events, but in their defence, the number of people who were now _in_ it was insane. And the newer people didn’t seem to take offense to being excluded for special events, nevermind that they didn’t all celebrate the same holidays. Stiles was glad everyone seemed to be settling in well and that things were calming down. 

He was still dreading the day the CIA or FBI called, but for now it seemed like everyone was enjoying the holidays. The raids had been put on hold, but Stiles knew that Peter and Chris were having discussions with McCall and Kincaid to compare notes. Sooner rather than later, they’d be going back to work. 

Stiles glanced at Peter when the man turned his head, and followed his gaze to the front door where Boyd had just snuck in. Stiles had noticed him leave about a half hour ago, but he hadn’t really thought much on it. Boyd made a bee-line for them and leaned close to Peter to say something quietly in his ear. Stiles figured it was to ensure none of the other Weres heard him, since _he_ certainly wouldn’t in this crowd.

“Thank you Boyd.” Peter clapped one hand on his shoulder, then turned to Stiles. “Come, let’s find my nephew.”

“Do we have to?” Stiles asked, going for joking, but feeling like he fell a bit flat. He was still ashamed to face him for having failed, and he didn’t want to see him secretly disappointed in the corner of a room somewhere. 

Peter just wrapped one arm around his shoulders and dragged him through the house. Derek was in the kitchen with Rose when they found him, making cookies, for some inexplicable reason. When the two of them walked in, Rose let out a loud dismayed sound. 

“No!” She hurried to Stiles and started shoving at him. “No, get out! You can’t be here, get out!” 

He let out an over-exaggerated gasp. “Are those cookies for _me_?” 

“No,” she insisted, stomping one foot. “You can’t see any cookies! There are no cookies!” 

“I mean, you’re right. That’s just batter right now. It could be anything. Pancakes, waffles, scones.” 

“Stiles,” she whined, shoving at him harder and he laughed while allowing her to push him back out of the kitchen. He felt kind of bad for having ruined the surprise, but he wouldn’t be any less excited when he was handed a cookie later. He figured Rose had been disappointed she and Alex couldn’t get everyone presents since money was kind of tight for them, and Derek had probably thought that being able to make cookies for Stiles would help at least a little bit. 

“Nephew, I need to borrow you and Stiles,” Peter said from out of sight in the kitchen. 

“But Derek’s helping me make _not_ cookies!” Rose insisted, rounding on Peter with a pout. 

“He’ll be right back,” Peter promised, tapping her nose on his way by, Derek on his heels. “I only need to borrow him for a moment. I haven’t given him his present yet.” 

Stiles hadn’t really been paying attention to who’d given him what, since they didn’t all _always_ get each other gifts. If they saw something one of them would like, they got it, but gift-exchanges weren’t mandatory. 

He hadn’t considered that Peter hadn’t gotten him or Derek anything, but he never expected him to. The fact that he’d apparently bought them a joint gift was actually kind of nice, in his opinion. It was almost like people really wanted to make sure they worked out, which was hilarious because Derek was literally stuck with him.

No take-backsies!

When they reached the front door, Peter pulled Stiles’ coat off the rack and handed it to him, since apparently they were going outside. Derek would be fine, because Derek was an asshole and never got cold, the jerk. 

“Ready?” Peter asked once he’d gotten the coat on. He didn’t bother doing it up, he doubted they’d be outside for long. 

“Yup.” 

Peter smiled fondly at both of them, then pulled open the door and motioned them out. 

Derek let Stiles go first, one hand on his lower back, and followed behind him. They stepped out onto the porch, and for a moment, Stiles wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking at. The front of the house was packed with cars, including the Mustang, because everyone had driven to Peter’s for the festivities. 

He knew Derek had noticed first, because he let out a sharp exhale, and Stiles turned to look at him. He tried to follow his line of sight, then did a double-take. 

“Yes!” he shouted, thrusting both hands in the air. “Yes, yes, yes!” He hurried down the porch steps and raced over to the car furthest from the house, because it was the last one to have been parked. 

It explained where Boyd had been, at any rate. He’d likely gone to pick it up. 

“Oh, baby!” Stiles practically fell onto the hood of the Camaro, arms outstretched like he could hug it if he just tried hard enough. “Oh sweetheart. We missed you so much. Look at you, you’re so pretty.” He kissed the hood, ignoring the snort he heard from Derek behind him, who’d evidently followed after him. “Derek, it’s your _car_! Oh my God, I’m so happy, I missed it so much.” He rubbed his cheek against the hood, the recent use making it not quite as cold as the weather would’ve normally made it. 

Derek rubbed at his back while he stayed where he was trying to hug the car, and he heard Peter approach, chuckling quietly to himself. 

“It took a lot of work, but it’s almost exactly back to how it was. The guys at the shop worked on it for months to get it back up to snuff for Christmas.” 

“This is the best present,” Stiles proclaimed, finally straightening and grinning at Peter. “Seriously, thank you. It’s not even my car, and I missed it like crazy, so Derek probably did, too!” 

Derek flicked him lightly in the temple, clearly saying, “Your car too.” 

“We had to change the starter,” Peter said, holding out two sets of keys. “I thought you would both be happy to have a set.” 

Derek smiled and reached out for his keys, Stiles snatching his own set excitedly. He now had a Camaro _and_ a Mustang. He was sad that whenever he and Derek split up in the day, he wouldn’t be able to take the Camaro—it was _Derek’s_ car first, he wouldn’t ever take it—but knowing he could drive around in it _with_ Derek was really nice. 

He’d honestly missed this car, it had a lot of memories for him. Not all of them good, but most of them, and he wanted to be able to keep them alive with the Camaro. It was the same way he’d kept his mother alive with the Jeep, even though he knew he was never seeing _that_ again. But he’d made peace with that two years ago, at least he had a nice photo album of pictures with both his parents, plus the ones from his old house. 

It was enough. 

Stiles’ phone rang loudly, the two wolves turning to him while he hastily pulled it from his pocket, a little confused. Anyone who _would_ call him was in the house, so he wasn’t sure what to expect when he flipped it around. He smiled when he realized there was _one_ person who wasn’t in the house. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, hurrying away from them while answering the call and putting his phone to his ear. “Merry Christmas.” 

_“And to you. How are you, Stiles?”_

“Really good. Did Peter tell you he was fixing up the Camaro for Christmas? We have the Camaro back!” He thrust his free hand in the air, still clutching his keys in it. “I’m so excited!” 

_“He did not, but I’m very happy to hear it. That was a good car.”_ He could hear the fondness in Satomi’s voice, like she could imagine how excited he truly was about a fucking _car_. But it was more than _just_ a car to Stiles. It was the Camaro. It was _the_ car. The first place he’d ever met Derek. 

Well, that he remembered, since meeting him as a child didn’t count. 

“Yeah.” Stiles grinned. “How’s your day been? Everyone have a good holiday?” 

_“It was nice, yes. Lots of food, lots of laughs. I do enjoy these times of year when the pack can get together and celebrate.”_ Stiles knew that she mostly always had the pack around and they ate dinner together and everything, but he was sure some of them liked spending time alone, or left for work or school, so having reasons for everyone to be together and happy was probably a nice experience. 

“Yeah, it’s really great. Ours is getting kinda big, though.” 

_“Big isn’t a bad thing,”_ she insisted with a clear smile in her voice. _“Wolves prefer bigger packs. And the Hale family used to be quite large in number. I am sure Derek is not at all upset to have such a large and unique pack.”_

“Yeah, it’s unique all right,” he said with a laugh. They honestly had more non-Weres than Weres in their pack, but that was mostly because of who was being rescued. It wasn’t to say they hadn’t added any new Werewolves at all, since some of the people who’d come into town outside of the rescues were accompanied by Werewolves, but they definitely hadn’t added nearly as many as other random Supernaturals. 

Derek didn’t seem to mind. Neither did Peter. Everyone just seemed happy their pack was doing well in general. 

He was sure Peter wept about his finances though. He never said anything, but Stiles really hoped he wasn’t bleeding himself dry for the sake of other people. 

At least Stiles was pretty self-sufficient for the most part, with his father’s estate. And he knew Peter was still working on getting Jackson his, though Stiles hadn’t heard about how any of that was going. He was afraid to ask in case it wasn’t going well. Peter would tell him, he was sure, when there was something to tell.

 _“Do you have any plans for the new year?”_ Satomi asked. 

“I don’t know. Still doing those raids, but they’re on hold right now for the holidays. Probably start up again sooner rather than later.”

Satomi hummed. _“Before you do, I was wondering if you might like to visit. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to see you and Derek.”_

He smiled widely. “Sure. Yeah, that’d be great. I can talk to Derek later and we can organize a time that works best for all of us.”

 _“That sounds wonderful.”_ Satomi was definitely smiling on the other end. _“I look forward to it.”_

“Yeah, me too.”

_“I won’t keep you any longer. Just wanted to wish you well and I hope the holidays have been treating you kindly.”_

“Thanks Satomi. You too. Happy New Year!” 

_“Happy New Year, Stiles. See you soon.”_

They said their farewells and Stiles hung up. He turned so he could head back to Derek and talk to him about the trip, but only got one step before pausing. 

Derek and Peter were hugging. 

That... was new.

Stiles had no idea what they’d been speaking about when he’d wandered away, but evidently it was something somewhat emotional, and he didn’t want to interrupt. He knew that the two of them had a bit of a weird relationship as a whole, but he’d never seen them actually show physical signs of affection before. 

He didn’t want to interrupt them, so he just smiled and instead turned to head back into the house, shutting the door behind himself and shrugging out of his coat. He wondered how long it would take Rose to finish up with those cookies, he was feeling a hankering for some sugar. 

Stiles smiled privately to himself about the events outside while he headed through the house to the kitchen, entering it to another loud, dismayed, “No!” 

* * *

“Jesus shit!” Stiles screamed, hitting himself in the face with his book and wincing at the injury it caused before turning to glare at Peter. The man himself just looked pleased while he slid the loft door shut much less violently than he’d opened it.

Stiles was positive he’d done it on purpose because he thought it was funny startling the poor non-super-hearing party in the house. It was _mean_ , is what it was. Stiles hated being startled out of his skin. 

“Little Spark. Nephew,” he said in way of greeting. 

Derek grunted from his spot at the table, scowling down at what was laid out on it with his arms crossed. 

It was a map of the Preserve, but an altered version that had been made since the creation of some of the pack houses. Stiles suspected he was trying to figure out how many more they could afford to build before they cut away too much of the forest. Not that there wasn’t a lot of it, and not that they’d made _that_ many houses, but the Preserve wasn’t really supposed to be torn apart like it was. He was sure Derek didn’t want to lose so much of it. 

They’d probably have to think about maybe building some townhouses or actual apartments or something _outside_ the Preserve. Beacon Hills was not a giant metropolis of a city, and while they didn’t necessarily have a shit-ton of people who had nowhere to go—maybe about thirty or forty—there were still people showing up from all over the place looking to buy homes and having literally nothing to choose from. 

A lot of them had ended up buying places in the surrounding towns, but they were really starting to get low on space, so he knew Derek wanted to try and figure out how to free up the motel to a degree. When they hit Schrader eventually, they already knew he had a massive collection, so they’d need all the space they could get. 

“How are you two doing?” Peter asked, moving to sit down beside Stiles on the couch and pulling the book from his hand to set it down on the coffee table. It was _Treasure Island_ , since he _still_ hadn’t finished it. He was getting there, though! Almost halfway through it and everything. 

“I _was_ good until you decided to jumpstart my cardiovascular system,” Stiles insisted, rubbing at his chest. 

“Cute,” Peter said with a small smirk, then glanced past Stiles at Derek and motioned him over. “We need to have a chat.” 

Oh great, this couldn’t be good. 

Stiles braced himself for bad news as Derek wandered over, bypassing the couch and sitting in Stiles’ desk chair, motioning for Peter to go for it. He seemed relaxed, so it obviously wasn’t _bad_ news. Derek would be tensing if he sensed any kind of signals coming off Peter that suggested bad news. 

“First, I wanted to provide an update on Jackson.” Peter looked pleased and Stiles felt his heart beginning to thump in his chest. If Peter looked pleased, that meant... “We’ve managed to locate the Whittemores, and after calling in a few favours, they were taken into custody last week. David Whittemore refused to speak, but after some time, Candace Whittemore broke down and admitted to everything they’d done to Jackson. She seemed quite distraught about it, likely because she realized what she had done to her sister’s only son. They are both awaiting trial but my contacts are confident they will pay dearly for what they’ve done to him.” 

Stiles had never been so fucking happy in his life to hear about someone paying for their crimes. He’d been happy hearing the Argents were arrested, and happy hearing about all the Collectors being arrested, but somehow, hearing _this_ made him the happiest he’d ever been. Because this had been Jackson’s _family_ , and he’d deserved better, and he was finally getting justice. 

“Thanks Peter,” he said quietly. “I know we all ask a lot of you, but time and again, you manage to deliver. This really means a lot to me, and I know it’ll mean a lot to him.” 

“Yes, he was quite overwhelmed when I mentioned it to him this morning,” Peter admitted, a fierce little smile on his lips. “But the good news doesn’t stop there. You were right, little Spark, about the money. After some digging, it was discovered that his parents _did_ have a will drafted when Margaret was four months pregnant. They hadn’t created one before then, but upon discovering she was with child, they decided it would be a good idea. Regrettably, it didn’t outline the Godmother in it, which was why the Whittemores ended up with Jackson. An oversight, in my opinion, but that’s neither here nor there.” Stiles could tell Peter wasn’t happy about the lack of forethought, but to be fair, people didn’t usually think they were going to die before formal arrangements could be made for their kids. “Jackson was entitled to their entire estate at the age of eighteen, and upon being unable to locate him when he turned legal age, the funds were held for three years as required by law for him to come forward before being released to the successor.” 

Stiles didn’t know how that was good news, because it had been well over three years since Jackson had turned eighteen. Stiles had met him when he was twenty, and he’d known him over a year now, so he was already over the three year mark. 

“That isn’t good news.” 

“Actually, it is rather good news,” Peter said cheerfully. “You see, the successor happened to be a woman by the name of Meredith Walker, and she has been searching for Jackson for a long time. She kept the funds aside for him, and was quite pleased to hear from me when I called.” 

Stiles frowned, because he recognized the name, then jerked slightly when he realized why. “She was the one fighting the Whittemores for custody.” 

“Indeed.” Peter seemed pleased Stiles was putting everything together so quickly. “They’ve already been in touch, and he’s planning a trip down to visit her later this week. He’s asked Ethan to go with him, I hope this doesn’t upset you.” 

“Jackson needs to take whoever is best for him,” Stiles insisted. “If that’s Ethan, then that’s who needs to go with him.” 

Peter seemed really happy to hear that, like he was always pleased at how selfless Stiles was. This wasn’t selflessness though, this was Stiles legitimately knowing that sometimes, there were specific people needed for specific things. It was why Stiles always needed Derek. If Jackson needed Ethan, then that was who he should be taking. It wasn’t going to hurt Stiles’ feelings, this had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with Jackson. 

He just wanted him to be happy.

“That’s really great though,” Stiles continued. “He’ll have someone in his life who can tell him about his parents, and he’ll have money, which I know has always been a sore spot for him.”

“Indeed.” Peter looked happy, and Stiles was once again struck by how much Peter truly, honestly cared about the people in his life. He pretended not to, but only a blind man wouldn’t be able to see how much he honestly _did_. 

“Thanks for letting us know,” Stiles said when Peter didn’t continue. He figured this was the extent of his visit, but apparently he was wrong, because Peter turned to Derek then. 

“By the way, you have a meeting with the mayor at nine in the morning on Thursday.” 

Derek’s eyebrows shot up and he tilted his head in a very obvious, “Uh, why?” 

“Because, I think it’s time you took over your duties,” Peter informed him, seeming pleased as punch at the somewhat panic-stricken expression on Derek’s face. “Come now, nephew. You’ve been doing a great job at every other aspect of this job. It’s time for you to do _all_ of the job. The mayor has been very kind allowing me to speak on your behalf, but I would think after everything he’s done for us and our pack, we might like to express our gratitude by giving him the privilege of speaking to the actual _Alpha_.” 

Derek reached up and rubbed at his throat, scowling at Peter, who waved one hand dismissively. 

“That excuse doesn’t work any longer. You have him.” He didn’t look at Stiles, but he jerked his head in his direction. “I’ve already advised the mayor that the Alpha and his Emissary would be present for the next meeting. I can tag along if you like, but I won’t be saying anything. You need to learn how to do this without relying on me.” 

“Does Deaton know you invited him to see the mayor?” Stiles asked curiously. He himself hadn’t met the mayor, but he was pretty okay with that. Sounded like he didn’t have a choice now, given he would be going as Derek’s interpreter apparently, but at least he wouldn’t have to make any of the hard decisions. 

“I wasn’t speaking about Deaton, little Spark.” Peter turned to him, looking unimpressed, like he thought he was stupid. “I would’ve thought you’d have clued in by now that Deaton was only Emissary to our pack because he was Talia’s. He was... on loan, if you will, until his replacement could be found. He was fortunate to have one fall into his lap without having to search for them.” 

There were a lot of magic users in town, and Stiles frowned while he tried to think on it. He knew of at least _one_ Druid who’d shown up, but Emissaries didn’t _have_ to be Druids. 

“Tara?” he asked. 

Derek let out a groan and buried his face in his hands. Peter was still staring at him with an unimpressed look on his face, then turned to look at his nephew. “Our pack is doomed if this is what we have to work with.” 

Stiles stared at him, mouth falling open. “Wait, _me_?!” he demanded, pointing at himself incredulously. 

“Yes, Stiles. You.” 

“But... but I’m not—I don’t know the first _thing_ about being an Emissary! I can’t do this, that’s crazy!” 

“You’ve _been_ his Emissary for over a year,” Peter insisted dryly. “Or haven’t you noticed Deaton hasn’t been around for an exceptionally long time.” 

Wait. 

_Wait_! 

This was... But Stiles wasn’t even _doing_ anything! He didn’t know what an Emissary _was_ , exactly, but he knew that he wasn’t it. He couldn’t do this, that was a huge responsibility, and he was going to fuck it up and ruin _everything_! He couldn’t do that to Derek, things were hard enough for him as they were! 

“It is quite disheartening that I can read every thought you’re having by your expression alone,” Peter said, sounding as unimpressed as he looked. “‘I’m not good enough. I’m going to make a mistake. I’m going to ruin everything.’ Do you not have any confidence in yourself at all? You had the same thoughts when you couldn’t use your abilities to their full potential. Why do you constantly believe you can’t do anything when you do _everything_ so effortlessly?” He reached out to grab his closest shoulder, squeezing hard. “You have been a formidable Emissary without even trying. Keeping our Alpha sane, helping him make difficult decisions, bringing the pack together, being the voice that Derek can’t use. You’re already our Emissary, Stiles. Derek chose you without realizing it, and you accepted without knowing it. Too late now, Deaton’s officially retired.” He patted his shoulder while getting to his feet, smoothing out the front of his expensive-looking coat. “Well, that was all I had for today. Don’t forget, Thursday at nine. Have a good day.” 

Stiles opened his mouth to speak but Peter was already heading for the exit, sliding open the loft door and leaving without another word. When the door slid shut, he turned to Derek, who was giving him an almost exasperated look. 

“I can’t do this,” Stiles insisted, throwing his hands in the air. “Have you _heard_ me speak to people of authority? I threatened Kincaid. _Kincaid_! He works for the CIA! If we go see the mayor, I might tell him his toupee looks stupid or something!” 

Derek’s look was annoyed, and he crossed his arms, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head in a clear, “So you’re okay being my Spark boyfriend, but not my Emissary?” 

“Hey, being your boyfriend is not a hardship,” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him. “And being a Spark is easy.” 

“Didn’t used to be,” Derek’s expression said. 

“Yeah, well—easier than being an Emissary.” 

Derek sighed and shifted so he could stand. He moved to take Peter’s empty spot on the couch, flicking Stiles in the forehead before placing his hand against his chest, staring at him intently. 

“You can do this,” the action said. “You’ve _been_ doing this. I need you.” 

“What if I fuck up?”

He pressed harder against Stiles’ chest in a clear, “You _won’t_.”

Stiles sighed and raked one hand through his hair, then leaned back against the couch and groaned, covering his face with both hands. Every time he thought his life was starting to fall into place, something happened that turned it on its head again. He was getting tired of the constant loss of footing. 

A thought occurred to him and he peeked through his fingers at Derek, who was still sitting beside him, though had let his hand drop from his chest to Stiles’ thigh, thumb rubbing lightly back and forth. 

“We should go visit Satomi. I forgot to tell you, she invited us back up. We should go. We can like, pack up and head out and spend some time with her for like, a month. Or a year.” 

Derek looked unimpressed again. “You’re running away.” 

“I’m not running away,” he argued, letting his hands drop. “I’m just... walking speedily in the opposite direction.” 

He got another forehead flick, then Derek levered himself up, kissing where he’d just hit him before moving back to the table. Stiles sighed, rubbing at the injury, but he knew Derek was on board with the visit. Just not before their meeting with the mayor. 

Stiles groaned and fell forward on the couch, burying his face in the cushions and letting out a loud whine. 

He really, _really_ didn’t want to meet the mayor. 

* * *

“Something on your mind?” 

“Hm?” Stiles snapped out of his thoughts, turning to his companion while they walked slowly through the trees, snow crunching underfoot. “What?” 

“You’ve been remarkably quiet,” Satomi said with a soft smile, motioning another path with the tilt of her head and Stiles automatically moving to follow along. “I find it unusual when you don’t speak your mind.” 

He hadn’t realized he was being quiet. Well, it was more he hadn’t realized he’d been distracted thinking as opposed to speaking to Satomi. After all, it would be a pretty pointless visit if he didn’t actually take time to _visit_ with her. 

He just had a lot on his mind at the moment. Their meeting with the mayor on Thursday had gone well enough, but Stiles kept waiting for something to go wrong. He didn’t know what he was doing, and he hated that he had to interpret things for Derek because, what if he interpreted them wrong? It was different when it was private conversations between the two of them, he could read every micro-expression on Derek’s face and know _exactly_ what he was thinking. 

But in public, with other people, when they were talking about such _important_ things... What if he’d misconstrued something Derek had been trying to say and completely fucked up? He knew he hadn’t, because Derek had been smiling when they left, one arm wrapped around Stiles’ shoulders and actually seeming quite happy, but still. It was a very real fear for him. He didn’t want to mess up and ruin everything for Derek. 

He wanted him to have his voice back. He wanted Derek to be able to _be_ the Alpha, to talk to the mayor himself, to express what he wanted. 

He was still pissed off he hadn’t managed to break the curse for Christmas, but well, hadn’t managed it so far, he didn’t know why he’d hoped it would be different this time around. 

Though he was getting a little depressed about it, because his three year anniversary of knowing Derek was coming up in the summer. His one year anniversary of _dating_ him was coming up next month. He was actually excited about that, though now he figured he was going to obsess about trying to break the curse for their one year anniversary of dating. 

Great, something else to stress about. No wonder Derek had decided as soon as they got home from the mayor’s office that they’d head out to Satomi’s first thing in the morning. 

He was glad they’d come, he loved seeing Satomi and he really liked her pack. 

Still wasn’t a fan of New Mexico though, but well, sacrifices. He had to make them. 

So on Friday morning, bright and early, they’d loaded up the Camaro— _yes_ , the Camaro!—and had been pulling out of the front lot when Mason had shown up, huffing and puffing and waving them down with a duffel over one shoulder. Apparently Peter had mentioned that they were heading out and Mason had wanted to go with them. Considering he’d spent the first few months of freedom with the Ito pack, Stiles wasn’t surprised he wanted to spend time with them whenever the opportunity presented itself, and it wasn’t like either of them minded the extra company, so he climbed into the back and off they went. 

They’d arrived late at night on the previous day, so this was technically their first full day of being with the Ito pack, and it was as fun as Stiles remembered it being. Mason was still fawning all over Brett, Derek was excitedly showing Reed his progress with his guitar and playing the songs he’d learned—and the ones he’d written—and Stiles was spending time with Satomi. Of course, they were going to spend time with the rest of the pack too, but for now, he just wanted a bit of Alpha guidance. 

Or more, a calming presence. Satomi had always been good at keeping him calm. And he wanted to try and speak a bit more about what they hadn’t discussed since the first month he’d known her. 

“You told me once,” Stiles said when they’d moved further through the forest, “that you didn’t doubt I could break Derek’s curse, but not in the way I thought. What did you mean by that?” 

Satomi was silent for a moment, hands clasped behind her back and eyes on the grey sky through the branches. Stiles was jealous she didn’t seem the least bit cold, but he’d been around Werewolves enough to stop feeling bitter about it. Jealous, yes, but not bitter. At least he was all bundled up, had cast that warming spell on himself, and had a hot Werewolf boyfriend to curl up with in his little guest house later. 

“I spoke to Kate Argent, did you know?” Satomi said, Stiles’ gaze snapping from the forest ahead of them back to her. She was still staring up at the sky, looking to be in thought. “After she and her party were arrested, Peter called me and asked for my assistance. I spoke to her to determine the extent of her abilities while Peter attempted to work at reducing her sentence if she broke Derek’s curse. In the end, his hard work was for naught, because while Kate is a Witch, it is very clear she isn’t a powerful one.” 

Stiles already knew that. She was so basic, she was practically human. Sure, she could do things like put restrictors on people and make them dizzy and whatnot, but she hadn’t ever once shown Stiles anything as impressive as Satomi had. He’d never once seen Kate do magic that had given him chills. It was more than likely she had a few select spells that she’d managed to master, and that was basically her entire repertoire. It explained why having the Spark around was beneficial, since a Witch lacking in magic wasn’t very useful. 

“So if she isn’t powerful, why can’t I seem to break it?” Stiles asked miserably. 

Satomi turned to him then, her expression soft, and reached out to lightly touch his cheek for a brief moment. “You are a good person, Stiles. You want nothing more than to help people. I know that all you want is to give Derek back something which was stolen from him, but it is not so simple. Kate Argent was not a powerful Witch, but it is those with the least amount of power who can sometimes inflict the most damage. She is the perfect example in that she found a spell, cast it on Derek, and didn’t once consider how to do so in a way that allowed for it to be broken. She would have broken the curse on Derek for a reduced sentence, if only she had the ability to do so.”

Stiles felt his hopes fizzling out. “So you’re saying... that because she sucks so bad at magic, she didn’t consider how to do the spell properly? She just did it and got the results she wanted without thinking about the future of it?” 

Satomi inclined her head slightly and Stiles felt like he wanted to sit down. He settled for stopping in his tracks, Satomi doing the same. If the person who’d cast the spell couldn’t even break it, then what hope did Stiles have? 

He knew he’d been told when Kate was arrested that she couldn’t break the spell, but he felt like some part of him had honestly believed she was fucking with them. She wanted Derek to suffer, so she’d only _said_ she couldn’t. But Satomi would’ve made _sure_ she was telling the truth, so if Kate honestly couldn’t break the curse she herself had put on Derek, what hope did Stiles have? 

Sure, he was the Spark and extremely powerful, but so far nothing he tried seemed to be working. And it wasn’t like he didn’t try, either. Sometimes, when they were both lying together in bed, Stiles curled into his chest, he would ask Derek if he could practice some magic on him. Derek always agreed without even knowing what Stiles was practising. It was always the same thing, different spells that healed or chipped away at magic already cast. He wanted Derek to wake up one day and mutter something to himself, and then realize he could speak. He couldn’t even imagine how overwhelmingly ecstatic that would make him, to see Derek’s stunned expression, for him to realize he could actually go back to being who he was before Kate had ruined his life. 

“Stiles,” Satomi said gently, reaching out to grip one of his hands. “I never answered your question.” She smiled, tightening her grip. “I know that your powers are formidable. I know that you can do so much more now than you ever thought you could in the past. But you fail to recognize that magic isn’t your only power. You are a good person, you care about others, you want to help people. You are trying to help Derek and I know that you will. But you are attempting to save him with your magic, when it is not going to help you this time. You will eventually break his curse, but not because you’re the Spark. Because you are _Stiles_.” 

“What does that even mean?” Stiles demanded desperately. He felt like the answer was right there, right on the tip of his tongue. He felt like Satomi _knew_ how to help Derek, like she’d always known, in her own way. 

“You love him,” she said softly. 

“More than anything,” he admitted. 

“Then you will break it when the time is right.” She released his hand, and instead wrapped one arm around his shoulders, beginning to walk once more and pulling him along with her. “You may think me cruel, because you suspect that I know what needs to be done to break the curse, but to be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea how to break it. It’s not about what I know and don’t know about the curse, it’s what I know for certain about _you_. There is a way to break this curse, and I know you will be the one to break it. How you do that though, is up to you. All I can say is I am positive it will not involve any of your magic, because you are more than just the Spark to him, Stiles. And that makes all the difference.”

Stiles still didn’t understand. Honestly, he didn’t think he would ever understand. Everything about his life had been tipped upside down the day his dad died and Derek had appeared shoving him roughly into the Camaro. 

They walked in silence for a long while afterwards, heading back to the main house the long way. It had started to snow again, very lightly. The kind of snow that didn’t stick when it touched down but still flaked in the air. 

When they reached the house, Derek and Reed were still on the porch, the two of them with their guitars out. It sounded like they were trying to play a song together, one of them doing the main guitar and the other doing the bass. It was actually not that bad, though Stiles honestly didn’t find much enjoyment out of it given the conversation he’d just had with Satomi. 

As they approached, Derek looked up, eyes finding his immediately. He smiled so brightly that it almost hurt to look at him and he set his guitar down so he could climb off the porch and meet them halfway. 

Stiles didn’t know how Derek could smile like that after everything he’d been through, but seeing him jogging over to him looking so damn _pleased_ , like Stiles was his entire world, made it a little easier not to let the grief crush him. He forced a smile that felt a bit easier than he thought it would, and spread his arms open so that Derek could move right into them. 

He hugged Derek tightly while Satomi took a step back, burying his face in the Werewolf’s neck. 

“I’m cold,” he whined, hearing Derek snort a laugh. “I want brownies and a fire and a toasty boyfriend.” 

He practically heard the eye roll, Derek thumping him once in the back before pulling away and motioning towards the guest house, asking if he wanted to head out. 

Stiles turned to Satomi and she smiled softly. “It is only your first day, we have plenty of time to catch up. You can fetch some dinner from inside and head back to the house.” 

“Thank you.” Stiles turned back to Derek and the smile came easier this time. “Let’s get some grub in that stomach of yours before you eat _me_.” 

Derek snapped his teeth playfully in his direction and Stiles ducked out from under his arms, sticking his tongue out childishly while jogging towards the house. 

He felt like Derek always knew when Stiles was having these moments about his voice. Made sense, he was a Werewolf and could read his chemosignals, but it seemed almost more than that. Every time Stiles got depressed on Derek’s behalf, it was like Derek wanted him to remember he didn’t care as long as he had Stiles beside him. 

Well, Stiles wasn’t going anywhere, so if having him at his side was what made Derek happy, it would be the easiest thing in the world for him to give him. 

He was never going to leave his side. 

* * *

Stiles had never been around during an attack while at Satomi’s before. He assumed it would be no different than back home where the pack all texted each other or they got together somehow and fought the good fight.

Not that they were fighting the good fight or anything on their land, usually. Normally any and all fighting happened outside of Beacon Hills barring that one time the Hunters had gotten in. So he was used to mass texts, or phone calls, or basically the use of technology to alert the pack of any perceived dangers. 

That probably explained why he had a veritable heart attack while he was out in a clearing with Derek, Heather, Brett and Reed, having a good time and basically losing horribly at a snowball fight, and then heard the loudest, most threatening-sounding howl he’d ever heard in his life.

Considering Derek had been present twice when someone had tried to kidnap Stiles, that was saying something. 

Heather, Brett and Reed immediately turned towards the house, eyes flashing gold and howling back. Derek grabbed at Stiles’ arm hard enough to leave bruises and then the wolves started hustling back towards the house together, keeping Stiles in the middle. 

Which was ridiculous because Stiles was _fine_ , thank you very much, Derek Hale. He was good with his magic now, but he supposed years of action were hard to get rid of overnight, so he allowed himself to be dragged back. 

“What’s going on?” he asked, stumbling slightly when the wolves moved faster. He may be a Spark, but he still had very puny human legs who couldn’t move at the speed of sound. 

Well, barring that one super-speed spell, but he hadn’t been practising that one.

“Someone crossed the barrier,” Reed snarled, eyes alert and tilting his head as they ran, like he was listening. “We’re needed at the house.” 

Stiles’ first thought was that this was entirely his fault. He knew people were still after him, and while Beacon Hills had evidently come to terms with having the Spark around, he was only visiting Satomi and it wasn’t fair to put her pack at risk because of him. 

He felt guilty and unhappy at the knowledge that he’d brought some kind of danger into their land, but didn’t have much time to dwell on it, because thinking that while trying to keep up with the wolves was difficult. 

Derek looked particularly pissed, like he’d been looking forward to a nice, relaxing few weeks somewhere different where they could enjoy themselves and not worry about people coming after them. Evidently, that moment was now shattered with this new threat looming. 

They reached the main house much faster than Stiles expected, his lungs burning from the cold air and feeling like he was out of shape. He tried to remind himself he’d been keeping up with a bunch of Werewolves, but it didn’t really make him feel better. 

Mason was standing in the doorway, looking a little pale and nervous while the other Werewolves flanked the house, a few out in front and looking threatening. Satomi was standing front and center with her hands clasped together in front of herself. 

Derek shoved Stiles towards the house, evidently wanting him a little further back, then went to stand with Satomi, two Alphas at the forefront of a large pack. Stiles didn’t _want_ to stand at the back like someone to be protected, but he didn’t want to cause more problems, so he obediently went to stand on the porch. He took up residence almost immediately behind where Satomi was standing, except back up on the porch instead of at the very front of the yard. 

When the car finally came into view, moving slowly through the trees, Stiles immediately knew this was entirely, one-hundred percent his fault. 

“Peter’s gonna be mad,” Mason said, moving up beside Stiles. “He is now without a car.” 

“Idiot,” Stiles muttered, moving quickly down the porch steps and jogging slightly to reach the front where Satomi and Derek were. A few people tried to stop him, as if worried, but Stiles knew this was nothing. Even Derek looked like he was trying for patience, and Stiles figured the only reason everyone still looked to be on alert was because they didn’t recognize the car. 

Once it stopped and the figure behind the wheel stepped out, they all instantly relaxed their defensive stances and Stiles saw Satomi smile slightly. 

“This place is a fucking nightmare to find, how do you order pizza?” Jackson demanded, slamming the driver’s side door while the passenger side opened, Ethan stepping out while looking around with interest. 

Satomi hadn’t met Ethan yet, considering he’d been rescued after her last visit, but to her credit, she didn’t react. The rest of the pack did, returning to their defensive stance at the sight of another Alpha in their territory. It wasn’t like with Derek, who’d shown up after announcing himself to Satomi, and whom they all knew fairly well. Ethan was an unknown party, and while they knew Jackson, it was clear they weren’t happy with him showing up uninvited with another Alpha. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles demanded, moving up beside Derek. “Does Peter know you took his car?” 

“No,” Ethan said, staying where he was and eying the pack in front of him warily. “We’ve already received four angry phonecalls.” 

“They would’ve been angry if I’d answered, which is why I made the conscious decision not to,” Jackson cut in, moving forward towards the others. 

“Couldn’t have taken the Mustang we left behind instead?” 

Jackson flipped him off, clearly because it hadn’t occurred to him and he didn’t want to admit it. He paused when he noticed Ethan hadn’t moved from his spot by his door. “You coming?” 

Ethan’s eyes shot to Jackson, then back to Satomi. He clearly hadn’t realized he was entering another pack’s territory when Jackson had made him come along, and he looked a little uncomfortable now. Like he wasn’t sure of his welcome. 

“I am Satomi, Alpha of this pack,” Satomi said politely from Derek’s other side. “And you?” 

“Ethan.” His eyes shifted to Derek briefly. “I’m part of Derek’s pack.” 

Satomi’s smile was small, but fierce. “Of course you are. Only Derek would have the ability to invite another Alpha into his pack.” She inclined her head slightly. “Welcome to our territory.” 

Ethan took that as the invitation it was and finally shut the door, shoving his hands in his pockets and moving forward. He stayed close to Jackson, and Stiles noticed the rest of the Ito pack was still tense, but as long as nobody made any aggressive moves, it should all be fine. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asked again, almost exasperated. 

“Wanted a change of scenery, shut up, Stilinski. You’re not the only one who gets to hang out with Satomi’s pack,” Jackson bit back, nodding a greeting to Kristoff, who grunted back. 

“He wouldn’t stop whining,” Ethan said immediately afterwards, ignoring the scathing look he got in response. “You were gone for too long and he was growing bored of all the, and I quote, ‘lameass losers that encompass the Hale pack when Thing One and Thing Two aren’t here.’” 

“Wait,” Stiles said, holding one hand up. “Super important question.” 

“Yes, we told people we were leaving, just not Peter. He wouldn’t have let me borrow the car,” Jackson said. 

“What? No, not that.” Stiles waved the words away, focussed on Ethan. “Who’s Thing One?” 

“What?” 

“Who’s Thing One? Is it me, or Derek?”

Ethan stared at him and didn’t deem that worthy of a response. He instead turned to Satomi once more so that he could officially introduce himself and apologize in low tones for having entered her territory without her permission. She wasn’t offended, and said it was fine, but Stiles was still reeling over the fact that Jackson apparently called him and Derek Thing One and Thing Two when they weren’t around. 

“Did you honestly drive all the way out here in Peter’s car because you missed us?” he asked with a small smirk, deciding he was going to grill people when he got back to determine who was which. 

“I was bored with the scenery in town, that’s all,” Jackson insisted vehemently. 

Stiles read between the lines, and was kind of touched. 

Derek was staring at the car, then looked at Jackson and raised his eyebrows, motioning it. Jackson just gave him an annoyed look. 

“I don’t speak eyebrow. I’ve told you this multiple times, stop bothering.” 

“He said he’s surprised Peter didn’t call to report his car stolen.” 

“Old man loves me.”

“Might not love you anymore if he knows you’re calling him ‘old man,’” Stiles informed him. 

Jackson shrugged, clearly unrepentant, and moved past them to speak to Kristoff like the two of them didn’t matter to him. Stiles knew they evidently did, or Jackson wouldn’t have bothered to come all the way out there.

Actually, he was pretty surprised that Jackson had managed to find the place, but he knew Peter was aware of where Satomi’s pack was—courtesy of their first visit—so it stood to reason Jackson had just gotten it from him. He was sure Peter wouldn’t have told him if he knew it would mean the loss of his car. 

“How are you two doing anyway?” Ethan asked when Satomi turned back to her pack and waved for them to return to whatever they’d been doing before her call. Some of them still looked a little wary of Ethan, but hopefully that would pass given he was in Derek’s pack and he was clearly trying to be as non-threatening as possible. 

Honestly, Stiles often forgot he and Aiden were even Alphas, they didn’t act like it when around Derek, presumably because they wanted to continue to live in Beacon Hills and be part of his pack. 

Satomi would be surprised if she found out there were _two_ Alphas who’d joined the pack, but Stiles wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. It would seem like he was bragging on his boyfriend’s behalf. 

“Fine,” Stiles said uncertainly. “Why?” 

Ethan shrugged, eyes returning to Jackson, who seemed to be having some kind of heated debate with Kristoff, which was the norm for Jackson and basically everyone he knew. 

“People have been a little worried about you guys. Not just Jackson, either.” He looked back at Stiles. “You’re not exactly open about what’s going on with you most of the time.” 

“Peter’s never gonna let that go, is he?” Stiles asked with a sigh. 

Even though it was well into January now, Peter still couldn’t get over the fact that Stiles hadn’t asked for help in September when Gerard had kidnapped Derek. He saw it as a personal failure, even if he didn’t say as much, because Stiles had thought he had to do it all himself without any support. That wasn’t at all what was happening at the time though, but regardless of how often Stiles argued that point with him, Peter was adamant it was one of his own shortcomings. 

“I think it’s more people are worried because you’ve been gone so long,” Ethan insisted with a shrug. “They all support you going off and visiting Satomi, but I guess most people assumed you’d be gone only for a few days, and instead it’s been almost three weeks.” 

Stiles hadn’t really thought about how long they’d been gone. Things were just comfortable with Satomi, and they had their own place since Mason had been staying with Brett since their arrival. It was like being back at the loft, except not. And Stiles knew that it was good for Derek’s psyche to be away sometimes. 

Being an Alpha was hard, but more so for someone who’d never been groomed to be one. Even _more_ so for someone who was cursed and couldn’t actually tell his pack how proud he was, how much he cared about them, how he’d do his best in the position he’d fallen into. Derek did his best, but it was hard for him, case and point being that he’d started going out with the others during the full moon, but he still spent a majority of the night curled against Stiles in wolf form because that was where he felt most comfortable. 

Cora had once said Derek’s dependence on Stiles was really bad for both of them, but it wasn’t dependence. Stiles was the only person who fully and completely understood Derek while he was under this curse, so it was more a comfort than dependence. Derek liked being around him because he liked being heard. 

Kira and Peter were the only other two who were remotely close to Stiles’ level, and even they weren’t half as good as him. It made sense that Derek would want to stick close to the one person he knew he could have a real conversation with using only his eyebrows and facial expressions. 

It was a good thing Stiles knew Derek loved him, or he’d have worried Derek was only with him for his ability to understand him. 

“How was the visit, by the way?” Stiles asked Ethan softly. Jackson seemed distracted, so he probably wasn’t listening in. “With Meredith.” 

“Emotional,” Ethan admitted. “Hard. But he’s doing okay. He wants to go and see her again next month and spend a bit more time out there. I think it’d be good for him. He met a lot of people who were happy to hear he was doing well.” 

“I’m really glad,” Stiles admitted with a smile, turning to watch Jackson joke with some members of the Ito pack. “I want him to know more about who his parents were. I want him to know that people care about him.” 

“Thank you.” Stiles turned to frown at Ethan in confusion. The Werewolf shrugged. “For caring about him. And for letting me go with him.” 

“That was his choice, and I had no right to argue against what he wanted.” 

“But you weren’t a dick about it, either.” 

“You’re important to him. That makes you important to me.” 

Ethan gave him an awkward kind of smile, like he wasn’t used to hearing things like that and didn’t know how to respond to it. Stiles just slapped him lightly in the back, and turned when someone approached.

“I’m afraid we’re a bit tight on space at the moment,” Satomi said, returning to their little pow-wow. “You’ll have to stay with someone.” 

“Mason’s been out most of the visit, they can stay with us.” Stiles shrugged. “We have two rooms, and as long as Brett doesn’t mind Mason sticking around, I’m fine having three annoying Werewolves in my space.” 

Satomi smiled slightly while Jackson snapped something rude from across the yard. Derek looked like he was lamenting their loss of privacy, but it wasn’t like it would be a huge deal. Besides, they should probably think about going home sooner rather than later. Not only for the sake of their own pack, but also because they’d imposed long enough. Satomi would never tell them to leave, but Stiles didn’t want to overstay their welcome. 

And having a foreign, unknown Alpha in their territory who showed up without invitation probably wasn’t winning them many brownie points with the pack. Satomi would never make them feel unwelcome for it, but Stiles knew she wasn’t thrilled about it. Derek was different, she _knew_ Derek. 

Ethan, not so much. He was still an unknown factor, so hopefully he’d behave. 

Stiles was sure he would, Aiden was the problem, so as long as his twin didn’t show up, they’d be golden. 

“This actually works out well,” Ethan said, Jackson beginning to move back towards them, kicking at snow like a child and sneering at various members of Satomi’s pack who were giving him dirty looks. Evidently his presence wasn’t appreciated now that he had an Alpha Werewolf boyfriend. 

“Works well?” Stiles asked. “In what way?” 

“We wanted to talk,” Jackson said. “About Schrader.” 

“What about him?” Stiles asked, never thrilled to hear about the Collector up in Montana with one of the largest collections in the world. 

“We caught a break. Someone from our last raid was sold to the Collector we rescued them from by Schrader. They know a lot about his house.” 

Stiles sputtered slightly, and could feel Derek’s annoyed shift behind him. “You went on a raid _without_ us?!” 

“You weren’t there,” Jackson said, waving one hand like it wasn’t important. “Parrish, Tara and Boyd came with us as backup instead.” 

“What the fuck! We’re a team!” 

“You weren’t there,” Jackson repeated impatiently. “Do you want to hear details or not? Chris and Peter are talking things out with everyone right now to get more information so we can be good to go when the time comes.” 

Stiles tried to stay mad, but it was hard. This was the Collector Chris had said they wouldn’t be able to win against. This was the man that had one of the largest collections in the world. This was someone they had been positive last year that they would never take down. 

But that had been before. Before Stiles was a full blown Spark. Before Alex and Jackson had gotten more practised at infiltrating a Collector’s home and escaping with the spoils. Before the contract with the FBI and the CIA. 

There were still a few smaller targets they wanted to hit, but they were all as lead-ups to Schrader at the end of the day. As soon as they hit him, as soon as they told the world, “We’re here, and we’re coming for you,” they would be able to save so many more people just using fear tactics alone. 

Schrader was one of those people who thought he was untouchable. He thought he was like Gerard Argent. 

Well, Gerard Argent was behind bars, and Stiles was ready to add a few more people to that cell of his. 

“Guess it’s a good thing we’re bunking together then.” Stiles half-smiled. “We should get started.” He turned to Derek and slapped him lightly in the chest. “We should get food. Pizza?” 

He shrugged in indifference and Stiles grinned, motioning for them to get back in the car so they could drive out to their little guest house. 

“Pizza, he says,” Jackson grumbled while stomping through the snow back to the car. “Pizza delivery guy will never find this place.” 

“Just because you got lost doesn’t mean everyone does,” Stiles insisted with a grin. 

“Shut up, Stilinski.” 

Looked like their calm, peaceful vacation was over. Time to get back to work.

* * *

“That was remarkably easy,” Alex said, standing beside Stiles and rubbing at her wrist while watching the local police and FBI file people out of the large mansion in handcuffs. Some of them looked furious, others resigned, and others still incredulous, like they weren’t sure what was happening. 

Stiles wanted to walk up to those ones and say, “You’re being arrested for being an asshole,” but he didn’t think the agents would appreciate that very much. 

“At this rate, we’ll be ready to hit Schrader next month,” Jackson muttered from Stiles’ other side. 

“Not yet,” he argued, eyes still on the people being led out. “There’s still a lot we need to do, and our teamwork with the agencies still isn’t great. Besides, the reaction time between my call and the FBI’s arrival was too slow, I want to try and get that moved up a bit. I figure the CIA will get annoyed too if I ignore them too much.” 

“Whatever, we don’t need them to rush to our rescue. You basically do everything now. Alex is just there to count the bodies, and I’m the pretty one,” Jackson argued. 

“Are you though?” Stiles asked, smirking at the affronted look that crossed Jackson’s features. 

This was only their second Collector raid since the FBI and CIA had gotten involved, but he was optimistic about how things were going to proceed moving forward. Of course, the main selling point to getting them through the door was Stiles, but that also meant when they showed up that security was fucking _insane_. Stiles was supremely happy that most people seemed to be using the cuffs Gerard had been using on him, because it made things infinitely easier. 

Jackson and Alex were still affected by them, but a majority of the Collectors still listened to Chris when he said what could contain them, so they’d only ever been put in cuffs once. It hadn’t been a big deal though, they’d only had to live with being shackled until Stiles broke them off for them. 

And it hadn’t taken long. They only stayed compliant up until they were sure they knew where all the other ‘collections’ were and then busted their cages wide open. For two people who’d been shackled in Harris’ collection for years, he was always supremely impressed and surprised by Alex and Jackson’s levels of cunning while trapped. 

He could only assume their taste of freedom had made them both more willing to fight to allow others the ability to experience it for themselves. They both worked really well together, they didn’t even need him. Really, he was just a bonus for them. 

When the other Supernatural creatures kept captive started being led out, officers and agents alike helping them towards waiting ambulances and asking questions, the three of them moved forward to speak to them all. 

Alex was the designated speaker, since she was the one who always gave the speech, and he couldn’t help but be supremely impressed with how she handled it. Everyone was clearly distressed and overwhelmed at the realization that they were free, but she was very good at explaining what the next steps were. 

Surprisingly, which Stiles hadn’t known, she made a really compelling speech using herself and Jackson as comparisons. He’d been surprised the first time he’d heard it, and hadn’t even considered how different things had been for both Alex and Jackson since their escapes. 

Alex and Rose had struggled a lot after escaping. They didn’t have anywhere to go, and they didn’t trust anybody. Anyone they trusted risked being an enemy, and it made for a very difficult life. They were constantly moving, constantly vigilant, and Alex was beginning to feel the weight of a life on the run. 

On the flipside, Jackson had gone with the person who’d rescued him. He’d immediately been welcomed into a home, had gained not only strong friendships but also joined a pack, and was actually a contributing member of society now. He had made the decision to trust Stiles, the person who’d saved him, and had lucked out. 

The only reason Alex had survived as long as she had was pure luck, and she admitted that it was hard trusting someone after everything she’d been through. Getting into Chris Argent’s car had been the most terrifying thing she’d done since escaping, but she knew she had to trust _someone_ and she’d chosen correctly. That one person she’d trusted happened to be heading to the same place as her, back to the person who’d helped her escape. It was where she should’ve been all along. 

It was while she was telling them about it being no pressure, and that everyone was different and needed to do what was best for them, that Stiles’ phone rang. He fished it out while Alex continued about how asking for help was not weakness, and how it was important to ensure that everyone stayed safe because the world was unfair and very, _very_ fucked up. 

Stiles flipped the phone around and froze. 

Derek’s name was flashing on the screen. 

He didn’t know what kind of body signals he’d sent out, but Jackson was up in his space instantly, eyes flashing and snarl on his lips. “What is it? What happened?” 

The last time Derek’s name had flashed on his screen like this, Gerard’s voice had been on the other end. Seeing his name as a phonecall was never a good thing, and Stiles couldn’t help but worry that maybe Gerard had escaped. 

What if he had Derek again? What if he was torturing him right now, and was going to make Stiles listen to him die? What if Derek was literally dying _right now_ on the other end?! 

Jackson wrenched the phone from his hand before Stiles could resist and answered the call. 

“Who is this?” he snarled down the line. 

Stiles tried to get the phone back, feeling panic sliding up his throat. Was it Gerard? Was it _Kate_?! Who was on the other end?! _Who was it?!_

Derek had been down the street with Peter, the two of them always close in case they were needed, but staying far enough back not to be seen. Chris hadn’t joined them this time around due to a work conflict, but they had the FBI with them so it wasn’t a huge deal. They’d been asked by the FBI—and the CIA—to stay back while the rescues were taking place to avoid too many bodies in the way. Neither Hale liked it, but as long as Jackson, Alex or Stiles texted them to confirm they were okay, they agreed to wait until given the all clear that they could come and pick them up.

Stiles knew that Peter was with Derek right now. He knew that it was entirely possible Derek was fine and Peter was just calling from Derek’s phone because he was lazy or because his was dead or whatever. 

But Stiles also knew Peter wouldn’t have called _him_ if any of those were true. Peter knew full well Stiles would have a negative reaction given what had happened the last time his phone had rung with Derek’s name on it. He’d have called Jackson or Alex, and Stiles knew their phones were working since Alex was the one to text them the all clear when they’d exited the house. 

Jackson’s hard expression didn’t soften, either. That meant it really _wasn’t_ Derek or Peter on the other end, and Stiles was going to lose it. He was going to _fucking **lose it**_! 

When he hung up, Stiles felt like he was going to vomit, because _how could he just hang up_?! 

“Alex, we’ll be right back,” he said, cutting her off mid-sentence. 

She turned to him, startled, and seemed to have missed the entirety of what had just happened. She nodded her understanding, eying Jackson critically, but turned back to the group she was speaking to. 

Jackson grabbed Stiles’ wrist and dragged him towards the road. 

“Jackson, who was that?” Stiles demanded, feeling his heart beginning to pound like crazy in his chest. “Was it Gerard? Where’s Derek? Is he okay? What happened?” 

The other man stopped and turned to him, grabbing his shoulders and giving him one hard shake. It hurt Stiles’ neck when his head snapped somewhat violently at the rough treatment. 

“Get yourself together, Spark,” he snapped. “It’s not Gerard, calm down.” 

_It’s not Gerard_ seemed to echo in his head and Stiles felt like he could breathe again. His chest was slowly loosening up and all his muscles relaxed slightly. It wasn’t Gerard. Gerard hadn’t escaped, he didn’t have Derek. That didn’t mean Derek was okay, but as long as it wasn’t Gerard, there was hope. 

“They’re both fine,” Jackson insisted, turning to continue walking, one hand returning to Stiles’ wrist to drag him along. “They got taken on purpose.” 

Stiles blinked at Jackson’s back. “What?” 

“Some Mage showed up while they were parked down the road. They were threatened harm if they didn’t follow along, and while Peter’s confident they could’ve taken the group at large, it seemed like a better idea to let him think he’d won.” 

“How do you know?” Stiles asked, confused. 

“Because Peter was telling me so,” Jackson insisted, turning to smirk at Stiles haughtily. “He purposefully made the Mage call your phone, knowing you’d react badly. He knew I’d be the one to answer. So while the Mage was speaking, Peter was mumbling under his breath in the background.” 

“Werewolf.” Stiles hadn’t considered how smart that was. Peter had been speaking to Jackson, knowing he could hear him, while simultaneously knowing the group with him wouldn’t. That meant they were a group of Supernaturals that didn’t include any wolves. “Who was it?” 

“No idea, some jackass who told me to hurry up before someone got hurt. I don’t think he realized I wasn’t you. Peter didn’t seem concerned, and he says they’re fine and won’t have trouble escaping. I figure he just didn’t want the trouble of ruining his car.” 

Stiles realized that was where they were heading. It wasn’t that far down the road, but it was still a good few minutes away from the house. It was late, so there were no cars, and considering the FBI and police were down the road, it was actually pretty ballsy. 

He figured whoever this was hadn’t realized the precarious position they were in. They’d probably seen Peter and Derek, realized who they were, and had attacked them, not stopping to consider _why_ the two Hales were hanging out in their car on the side of the road in the middle of the night. 

It didn’t take long for the car to come into view, and for them both to see the various other vehicles that had stopped around it. Stiles was sure Jackson could see better than he could, considering how dark it was. 

His only hint of where people were was the flashlights shining in the darkness to the left of the cars. It looked like the back lot of some construction site, impossible to enter with the vehicles, but likely much easier to infiltrate on foot. And if Mages were involved, even easier. 

“How many?” Stiles asked. 

“What am I, a mathematician?” Jackson demanded, immediately followed up with, “Twelve.” 

“How many Supernaturals?” 

“I don’t fucking know, enough? Who cares, let’s just get them back and go home, I’m tired. And horny.” 

“TMI dude.” 

“Shut up.” 

Jackson’s usual tough love was making Stiles feel like everything honestly _was_ okay, and that there was nothing to worry about. He may not know who they were about to meet with, but if he had Jackson with him, and the confidence that Derek and Peter truly _were_ fine, it made it easier not to panic. 

Stiles still wasn’t good at not worrying about other people, he’d have to work on that. 

As they approached, a few flashlights were aimed their way. Jackson snarled about the light but Stiles just raised one arm to stop the beams from shining right in his eyes. He squinted, trying to see past them, but didn’t need to given the voice that spoke a moment later. 

It had been an _extremely_ long time since he’d heard it, but he would definitely never forget it. 

“I don’t remember saying you could bring a friend.” 

“Ennis?” he blurted out without thinking at the same time Jackson snarled. 

“I’m the one who answered the call, shitstain.” His smile was all teeth, sharp canines and elongated fangs. His eyes were flashing blue and Stiles could see scales beginning to creep up the side of his neck. “You made a mistake coming for the Hales.” 

Ennis let out a loud laugh then, and he moved slightly so that he was a bit closer, the lights from his companions’ flashlights illuminating him from behind. It made him look taller and more intimidating than Stiles remembered, but he was _not_ scared of this man at _all_. Compared to the fear he held for Gerard, Ennis may as well have been a gnat for all the fear he instilled in Stiles. 

“Hales,” Ennis said, smile in his voice and face still shadowed. “So they _are_ Hales. And if they’re Hales, the known descendants of the Gevaudan line, then that means they’re here to protect someone. And that someone is you.” He motioned Stiles. “The last Spark.” 

Stiles felt the excited shift around him. These morons were actually thrilled at their luck. They were actually standing there, aiming weapons at Derek and Peter, and glancing at each other excitedly thinking they’d just won the jackpot. 

It was so laughably ridiculous Stiles almost wanted to burst into laughter. 

Instead, he shifted slightly so he could see Derek past Ennis, his face clearly visible given the flashlights aimed on him along with the weapons. He was on his knees with both hands behind his head and an annoyed look on his face. 

“Seriously?” Stiles asked him, earning him a small scowl. “Again? Can you please _stop_ getting kidnapped? What are you, a damsel in distress?” 

“Disney princess,” Jackson countered. “He’s cursed. Totally a Disney princess thing.” 

“True,” Stiles agreed, turning to him. “Which one, you think?”

“Which one’s the lamest?” Jackson asked, which earned him an annoyed huff from Derek. 

“Boys,” Peter’s jovial voice cut in, making them both turn back to him. He was beside Derek in the same position, hands behind his head, but he had an almost bored look on his face. “I know this is all very amusing for you, and I’d happily weigh in on which Disney princess Derek falls under, but this asphalt is quite uncomfortable and I’d like to get home sooner rather than later. The new season of _Nailed It_ just came out, and I’m rather eager to sink my teeth into it.” 

“What is this?” one of the men near Derek asked uncertainly. 

“Ennis, you said he was still in training,” another hissed. 

“He _is_ ,” Ennis insisted. “He’s bluffing.” He held one hand out to Stiles. “Come here. Now. Unless you want your friends’ brains all over the parking lot.” 

“This isn’t so much a parking lot as it is just a regular lot right now,” Stiles argued. “I mean, objectively, yes, it’ll probably _become_ a parking lot, but they’re still building so it looks more like a regular _lot_ to—”

Apparently the humour was lost on Ennis because one hand shot up and suddenly the ground exploded outwards, a wall of dirt shooting towards Jackson and Stiles. 

Using the hand still around his wrist to yank Jackson back behind him, Stiles raised his free hand and cut through the cascading earth heading for them, slicing it right down the middle so it bypassed them entirely. He was going to have to send an apology letter to the construction company since they were now going to have to re-do this lot. 

“That was rude,” Peter said from behind Ennis. “Stiles was almost finished his sentence, you could’ve at least waited for him to do so before attacking him.” 

“Shut up,” Ennis snarled angrily, but he didn’t turn. “Kill the Hales.” 

“Rude,” Peter said again, almost sighing, like this entire thing was troublesome. 

Stiles actually felt pretty good about Peter’s faith in him, because he didn’t seem the least bit concerned at the threat. He just stayed on his knees with his hands behind his head while the men shot at him and Derek. 

And then sighed in aggravation when the bullets all ricocheted off the shield he’d erected around them. He was really good with the shield, always had been, except when he was caught off-guard. 

He wasn’t off-guard right now, and it was the first thing he’d done upon arriving, because he didn’t want to lose Peter or Derek. 

“Ennis,” a woman’s voice said, sounding nervous when they’d finished firing. 

Ennis said nothing, seeming unsure of what to do and how to proceed. Stiles just smiled pleasantly at him, tugging on his wrist to make Jackson let him go, which he did. 

“Hurry up, Alex is going to wonder where we are and Ethan’s waiting up for me,” Jackson insisted while Stiles took a few steps forward. 

“Blame Peter, he let himself get captured.” 

“I’d like to remind you my nephew is right beside me,” Peter said dryly. It was actually amusing seeing how unconcerned he was about the whole situation even while still kneeling with both hands behind his head. 

Stiles moved forward so that he was standing a little closer to Ennis. It was immensely satisfying to see him back up slightly, because he was a rather large man, and knowing he was scared enough of a ‘scrawny, puny little weakling,’ as he had once called Stiles, made it so much better. 

“Hey Ennis,” Stiles said darkly, closing the distance between them even as Ennis slowly but surely backed away from him, “I don’t like it when people threaten those I care about. It’s not very nice.” 

Ennis looked nervous. Stiles couldn’t see much of his face, but he’d been living with Derek long enough to be able to read body language fairly well. Ennis was nervous as fuck, and Stiles was excited about that. 

“There’s a spell I’ve been meaning to try.” Stiles shrugged expansively. “Haven’t gotten around to it. Shall I try it now?” 

When one of the men aiming a gun at Peter turned tail to run, Stiles figured now was as good a time as any. He didn’t want the guy to get away, after all. Not after this. Not after what they’d just tried to do. They’d legitimately _shot_ at Peter and Derek, and he wasn’t okay with that. 

He had to concentrate, because he’d never actually attempted this spell before, and he didn’t want to catch Derek, Peter and Jackson in it. If he did, no big deal, but still a bit of a pain and he was _not_ strong enough to carry one Werewolf off, let alone three. 

So he inhaled slowly, concentrating hard, and then pushed the spell out when he exhaled. 

_Sleep._

Ennis instantly fell face first into the ground, Stiles wincing slightly at the crack his head made when he hit the pavement. The others seemed to crumple a bit more gently, their knees giving out instead of just face-planting right into asphalt, and he was pleased to see that Peter and Derek were both fine, as well as Jackson. 

“The fuck did you do?” Jackson grunted, moving up beside him while looking around at the fallen enemies. 

“Made them take a nap. It’s past their bedtime.” 

“You’re terrifying,” Jackson informed him, but Stiles didn’t take offense to it. 

Realistically, now that he was really comfortable with his powers, and confident in every spell he did even when it was his first time, he knew he _was_ terrifying. His friends didn’t care though, and that was what mattered most to him. 

“Hey princess, you okay?” Stiles asked. 

He got a real look for that, Derek climbing to his feet and brushing off the knees of his jeans. Peter was also standing, prodding at one of the closest fallen men with his shoe and then sneering, like he shouldn’t have touched him and dirtied his footwear. 

Derek moved over to where they were, pressing one hand to Stiles’ chest in a clear, “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. You?” 

Derek answered by kissing him lightly. Jackson made some mumbled comment about PDA but they both ignored him while Peter finally joined them, looking both pleased at the turn of events, and somehow annoyed at the same time. 

Peter was as talented as his nephew in facial expressions, apparently. 

“Why didn’t you bring the police?” he asked, aiming his question at Jackson. 

He got a shrug in response before Jackson thumbed at Stiles. “This was easier.” 

“I told you so that you’d bring the cops, not Stiles,” Peter said, as if Stiles’ appearance was an inconvenience. Before he could get offended, Peter continued. “Not that I’m not happy to see him, but the whole reason we allowed ourselves to be captured was to get these men arrested. Instead, we now have to go and get the police ourselves. I may as well have just done that myself from the beginning.” 

Stiles thought about it for a second, then wondered how far his teleportation/portal spell thing worked. After all, when he’d first used it on Caleb, he’d been in panic mode. Using it on Jackson was a bit further in range, but not by much since the loft and the Hale house weren’t exactly far apart. But maybe he could actually summon one for someone who was much further away. 

Did he need to know where the person was? Or could he just attempt it? 

Well, he’d already tried one new spell tonight, might as well try another one he knew a bit better. 

He raised one hand, aiming it a bit to his left so that nobody would get stepped on, and forced open a portal. There was a small shout, and someone quite literally stumbled through it, almost tripping and landing flat on their face. 

He was wearing a suit, same as the last time Stiles had seen him, and was holding a file in one hand and a coffee in the other. The coffee was in a mug, and it spilled across his hand and onto the ground at his stumble. Stiles closed the portal when Kincaid whipped around, clearly disoriented and completely dumbfounded. 

When his eyes landed on Stiles, he managed to straighten and look somewhat annoyed. 

“What would you have done if I were indisposed?” Kincaid asked. 

“What, like you were on the toilet or something?” Stiles asked, then shrugged. “Laughed, probably.” 

Kincaid was eying him with interest, like he knew Stiles had literally just transported him from wherever he was all the way here, and was now wondering how to benefit from that ability. Stiles wasn’t too worried, his contract with the CIA was pretty solid considering Peter and the lawyer. 

“Is there a particular reason you summoned me?” Kincaid looked around and paused when he caught sight of the fallen bodies. “Am I witness to a murder?” 

“They’re just sleeping,” Stiles insisted. Jackson even kicked at Ennis slightly, the man letting out a loud snore before quieting again. “They tried to kill Derek and Peter. And were presumably looking to kidnap me.” 

“I see.” Kincaid shifted to put the folder under the arm that was holding the coffee mug, then reached into his pocket for his phone. “I can have a team sent to this location.” He glanced around, as if for a sign. “Where exactly are we?” 

Stiles shrugged. “Have them track your phone or something.” 

“You’ll send me back once this has been handled, yes?” Kincaid asked, stabbing at something on his screen and bringing the phone to his ear. 

“I suppose it’s only fair.”

Kincaid didn’t look happy with that reply, but someone appeared to have picked up on the other end, because he turned away to speak to them, asking for a team to be sent to his location from the nearest office. Apparently it was going to take over an hour, which Peter bitched and moaned about since the FBI and local police were right down the road, but Stiles didn’t say anything. 

He had to split the load with both the CIA _and_ the FBI equally, so if the FBI was helping down the road, then it was only fair to call in the CIA for this.

Besides, Stiles had found great enjoyment in seeing Kincaid stumble around like an idiot. 

He sent him back once he was off the phone, honestly unsure of his landing since he still sucked at that part of the spell, and then he and Derek agreed to stay behind until the team arrived. Jackson and Peter had to head back to Alex and get organized in case some of the people they’d rescued decided to head to Beacon Hills with them. Stiles insisted one of the agents would be able to give him and Derek a ride back to the hotel they were staying at for the night, so Peter and Jackson left. 

Once they were gone, Stiles turned back to Derek and immediately got flicked in the forehead. 

“Ow,” he insisted emphatically, rubbing at the sore spot and scowling. Derek just raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms. “What? I had to make it fair!” 

Derek didn’t look impressed, and it was clear he was annoyed to see Kincaid when they could’ve just gone to get the FBI. Also, he seemed annoyed at having to stick around waiting for the team to mobilise and show up which, true, annoying, but Stiles had really, _really_ wanted to fuck with Kincaid. 

“I’m sorry,” he insisted, leaning up to kiss Derek lightly. “I’ll bake you brownies when we get home as punishment.” 

Derek snorted and rolled his eyes, evidently saying, “That’s not punishment, you love brownies.” 

“I’ll bake you brownies that I am not allowed to eat,” he amended. 

He got another look for that which, fair. Derek was weak to Stiles’ pining for sugar, so if he whined enough, Derek would cave and let him have some. Really, it was a win-win for Stiles. 

“I’ll bake you brownies that I am not allowed to eat _and_ leave the apartment once they’re done to wallow in anguish in the train car.” 

That seemed to have Derek thinking a little bit, head cocked to one side while he thought before finally shrugging. 

Stiles grinned, kissed him again, then wrapped his arms around him to pull him tight against his chest while whining that he was cold. 

Derek sighed, exasperated, but still wrapped his own arms around Stiles like the good boyfriend he was. 

Hot Werewolf heater boyfriends were the best. 

* * *

Stiles bit at his thumbnail while staring down at the spell, reading it over and over again in an attempt to determine if this was actually going to work or not. It wasn’t like he hadn’t exhausted his research on it, but that wasn’t really the problem. 

Honestly, the problem was Derek, or more accurately, the curse on Derek. 

Because the source was unknown barring it being Witch magic, and Kate herself not being entirely sure of how she’d cast it, it meant that even if he found something like this and researched it extensively to determine whether or not it would actually work, the outcome didn’t guarantee success. 

It didn’t help that he had no fucking idea how to even attempt it with Derek. What if he tried it out and it didn’t work? He’d have gotten Derek’s hopes up for nothing, and he didn’t want to do that. But it wasn’t like he could just attempt it without telling him, he’d never know if it worked or not since Derek didn’t try speaking regularly. 

Sure, when he got mad he would move his mouth like he was _trying_ to speak, and sometimes when he got all cuddly in bed, Stiles would feel his lips moving against his temple or hairline, but it wasn’t like Derek actively _tried_ to speak. 

Still... he just... didn’t want this to fail. He was just scared of getting Derek’s hopes up and having him spiral into a depressive state if it didn’t work. 

“What’s up, buttercup?” 

Stiles jumped and looked up, seeing Kira slide into the booth across from him, her purse tossed carelessly onto the empty seat beside her. She smiled at him when their eyes met and then dipped her gaze down to the book in front of him. 

“What are you reading?” 

Stiles pulled his hands off the table and rubbed the sweat off them onto his jeans, eyes returning to the book he’d been staring at for the past twenty minutes. 

“It’s actually why I called you,” he admitted quietly. “I needed a second opinion and, well, I just didn’t trust it to be Peter.” 

“That’s new,” Kira said slowly, frowning slightly. “Peter’s usually your go-to person. Him or Satomi when it’s not Derek.” 

“Satomi wouldn’t work,” he insisted quietly. “It has to be someone who knows Derek. Like, she _knows_ Derek, but it has to be someone... _more_.” 

“Okay.” It was said slowly once more, like Kira was trying to figure out what this was about, even as her eyes continued to shoot back and forth between the book and Stiles’ face. 

He inhaled deeply, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled and looked back up at her. “Don’t get your hopes up, okay? Please, just—I need you to listen without getting over-excited.” 

“Sure,” she said, more concretely this time. 

He nodded once in thanks, smiled and motioned at the waitress that they were fine before she came any closer, then glanced back down at the book. He brought both hands up and smoothed down the two pages in front of him, even though only one of them was of importance. 

“I found a spell,” he said quietly. “It’s an old spell. Shaman magic. It—actually, it’s really impressive. It’s kind of powerful, based on what I’ve read about it.” He glanced up at Kira. “Did you know that Shaman seem to be the closest magic users to a Spark? They can’t do all forms of magic like Sparks can, but they can counter-act almost all forms. If a Mage were to attack a Wizard, there’s a strong change the Wizard would be overwhelmed by the magic and lose a fight. If a Mage attacked a Shaman, even if the Shaman can’t replicate the spell, they can still counter it.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Kira said, seeming interested, even if it was clear she wasn’t entirely sure why Stiles was telling her this. 

“Yeah, they seem pretty powerful.” He slid his fingers along the words in the book. “Apparently they excel at that sort of thing. Counter-acting other spells.” He paused. “They’re also particularly good at breaking curses.” 

He felt like he heard the moment Kira stopped breathing, but he didn’t look up at her. He just kept his eyes on the words in front of him, fingers still sliding slowly across the page. 

They both sat in silence for a long while, because Stiles knew she was well aware of what he was implying. He knew she was thinking about Derek, and his curse, and about what this spell could mean. 

Stiles waited for her to get her head back on straight before continuing, because he didn’t want her to get excited. He didn’t want her to get her hopes up. He had no idea if this was going to work. The book referenced that it broke curses, yes, but the wording used suggested it was for known curses. Common curses.

Not a jealous, rapist Witch bitch who wanted a fucking minor to tell her he was in love with her. 

“What do you need from me?” Kira asked after an extremely long silence. Evidently, she knew he wouldn’t have called her if he didn’t need to, and since he’d specifically said he needed someone who knew Derek, it was clear there was a reason she was sitting across from him. 

“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly. “If I try the spell and it doesn’t work... I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to tell him about the spell, get his hopes up, and then have it fail. But if I don’t tell him, I won’t actually know whether or not it worked because it’s not like Derek actively tries to speak on a regular basis. It could be days, even weeks before anything happened.” 

Kira hummed her understanding, leaning back in her seat and thinking. He was sure she was weighing the pros and cons the same way he was, because on the one hand, it would be _amazing_ to tell him about the spell, but on the other, it would probably devastate him if it didn’t work. 

Not telling him wasn’t really an option either. Not only because Stiles wouldn’t know if it worked, but also because he didn’t want to lie to Derek. He’d never, _ever_ used magic on Derek without his consent, but this spell required a lot of focus, and he didn’t think he could do it the way he usually did, lying in bed with him. 

Derek was smart, he’d know something was different with how hard Stiles was concentrating. 

And he didn’t want to use magic on him without his knowledge, so it wasn’t like he could just wait for Derek to fall asleep before attempting it. After what Kate had done to him, that felt like a huge line for him to cross, because Derek had already had many things done to him without his consent, and Stiles didn’t want to add to that. 

He didn’t want to be another person who did something to Derek without his knowledge or consent, even though he knew he had good intentions. It didn’t matter, it still wasn’t fair. 

“I think you should tell him,” Kira said quietly after they both sat thinking for a little while. “I think—it would be best to tell him. I know it might hurt if it doesn’t work, but Derek... he’s happy,” she admitted with a soft smile. “He might not be whole, and he might wish things were different, but ever since you came into his life, he feels _heard_. It doesn’t matter that he can’t speak, he’s been expressing himself for years since he got cursed, and you were the first person who bothered to listen to him. He won’t care if it fails as long as he has you.” 

Stiles let out a slow breath, reaching up to rub at his face with both hands, then raking them through his hair, staring down at the spell. He’d memorized it hours ago, down to the fucking punctuation. He could re-write this spell in his sleep, and he knew that he would definitely, absolutely _not_ mess this up, but still...

What if it didn’t work? 

Derek had given Stiles so much. _So much_! More than Stiles had ever thought he would get. Definitely more than he felt he deserved. He wanted to be able to give Derek something in return, and this... this was all he could give him. 

“Stiles.” Kira reached out to place her hand lightly overtop the page he was still staring at, forcing his attention back to her. She smiled softly. “Just tell him. Try, and hope for the best. If it doesn’t work, he knows you’re trying, and that means more to him than anything.” 

He knew it was true. He kept thinking back to how tightly Derek had held him at Satomi’s when he’d had his breakdown. When he’d flipped the table and screamed that he was the fucking Spark and he could do _anything_ and that he should be able to do this. Derek hadn’t been upset, he’d almost been happy, because Stiles cared so much. 

Derek was a fucking giant softie, no matter what his stupid, ruggedly handsome face suggested. 

“Okay?” Kira asked with another kind smile. 

“Okay,” he agreed, then let out a small breath. “Yeah okay.” 

“Okay,” she repeated, pulling her hand back. “Did you eat? I’m starving.” 

When he shook his head, Kira smiled and turned to see if they could catch someone’s attention. The same waitress from earlier noticed and wandered back over, smiling brightly at them and handing over menus since all Stiles had ordered when he’d arrived over an hour ago was a milkshake. 

Derek, Scott, Parrish and Jackson had headed out of town to grab some more lumber for the houses in the Preserve, so he knew he had time before they came back. He figured hanging out with Kira would probably be for the best, it would help keep him calm. She was really good at things like that, and he didn’t see her nearly as often as he liked.

His own fault, he was kind of a hermit. He supposed it was a residual from his childhood and the way he’d grown up. He loved being out and about with people, but he tended to habitually head down to his train car or spend the day in the loft with Derek only because it was comfortable and familiar, and he didn’t used to be able to go out freely. It was still a little weird to be out in the diner without Derek sitting beside him and glaring at anyone who got too close.

Sure, it had been a long time since Derek had done that—it was already the end of March, after all—but it didn’t get any less weird. He’d spent more time with someone watching him than less, so he figured it’d take a few years before he was used to being out and about on his own. 

Still, it was nice, and he liked doing it. He just forgot he was allowed to sometimes. Usually only the call of grease from the diner reminded him he could head out there. Derek had apparently told Boyd to police Stiles’ sugar intake, but Boyd didn’t work all the time and the owner loved him, so he still managed to get more food than he was sure Derek was happy with.

He really needed to join a gym or something though, his pants were getting tight and even if Derek would still love him if he was fat, he was _not_ going to get fat. He just needed to use more magic, it would speed up his metabolism. 

Kira was even kind enough to pay for their meal, even though Stiles had basically dragged her out to have this conversation with her, but she was employed and Stiles was really still living off his father’s estate for the moment. He needed to save that for university, and he really needed to think about getting a job. He was getting paid for his two contracts with the FBI and CIA, but it was kind of peanuts given everything in the contracts was in his favour, and it wasn’t like he worked steadily for them, just when something came up. 

They were sharing a brownie sundae while discussing the pros and cons of moving into the houses out in the Preserve—Kira by herself, and Stiles and Derek in their own place to be closer to the pack—when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, which allowed Kira to snag the last bite of brownie with a triumphant smirk and he scowled at her. 

“Rude,” he insisted, but she just smirked and licked at her spoon. 

**[Derek]**  
?

 **[Stiles]**  
diner, where else?  
**[Stiles]**  
you home?

 **[Derek]**  
1

 **[Stiles]**  
kk be there in a bit :) 

He sent a kissy face emoji and got an eye rolling one back, but he knew Derek loved it. 

Given Kira had already paid for everything, and they had now finished up their dessert—thievery of the last brownie aside—Stiles started getting his items organized while Kira pulled her purse back over from where she’d tossed it. Stiles grabbed the large tome and the two of them stood, heading out of the diner together, Stiles waving at the girl behind the counter. 

When they got into the small parking lot, Stiles stood awkwardly beside the Mustang, Kira moving alongside it with him and offering him a one-armed hug. 

“It’ll be okay, Stiles. If it works, you’ll have made so many people thrilled. If it doesn’t, he’ll survive so long as he doesn’t lose you.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, exhaling slowly. “Thanks Kira.”

“Sure. Let me know how it goes.” 

Nodding, he turned to unlock the car and climbed behind the wheel. Starting it up, he saw Kira wait for him to leave the lot before heading to her own car. His hands tightened and loosened around the steering wheel anxiously while he drove and he ended up rolling down the window so that the smell wouldn’t permeate the vehicle. He didn’t want Derek to smell anxiety and fear the next time he climbed into the car. 

It wasn’t a long drive back to the loft and when he got there, he parked in the usual spot Derek left the car in, then sat behind the wheel for a few minutes.

He knew he couldn’t dawdle, Derek had obviously heard him come back, and he’d come down to see what was taking him so long if he didn’t head up soon. Still, it was hard convincing himself to exit the car, but he finally managed it. Locking up, he headed for the door and tried the knob. Derek often left it unlocked when he was home alone, which Stiles hated, but Derek never listened to him. 

Entering the building, he locked up behind him and then trudged up the stairs, clutching the book in both hands and feeling the anxiety beginning to mount. Finally reaching the loft, he slid open the door after a brief moment to compose himself, and found Derek sitting on the couch browsing through the channels. He turned when Stiles walked in, offering him a smile, but it slowly disappeared when he got a good look at him. 

If he didn’t _look_ stressed, then he definitely smelled it, and Derek turned off the television, getting to his feet and moving over to where Stiles was still standing by the door. 

Shifting his weight, Stiles turned and slid the loft door shut, then faced Derek once more, the Werewolf having closed the distance. He licked his lips nervously, still practically hugging the book to his chest, and nodded his head towards the table. 

“Can we sit?” 

Derek frowned, and it was obvious he wasn’t sure where this was going, but he obeyed, moving around the table so he could take a seat in his usual spot. Stiles shuffled forward more slowly, setting the book down in front of his own seat before pulling his chair out and taking his time falling into it. 

He could tell Derek was concerned, but hopefully he’d be less worried once Stiles started talking. It was just hard because Stiles really, _really_ didn’t want to get his hopes up. And he didn’t want to hurt him by making him think he wasn’t good enough. He liked to think Derek knew him better than that, but it wasn’t like the guy was a mind-reader. 

“Okay.” Stiles rubbed his sweaty palms along his pants again, like he had back in the diner. Derek watched him, and with the way his shoulders were getting tense, Stiles was positive he had the wrong idea. “Can you get that concerned look off your face, it’s nothing bad.” 

Derek gave him a sceptical look but it was clear he was trying to calm himself down a little. Stiles hoped he could at least figure out on his own that there was only anxiety and nothing more than that. Seriously, that could mean anything. Maybe they were out of pie at the diner, Stiles _loved_ pie! 

“Okay,” Stiles repeated, opening the book and flipping to the correct page. He ran his fingers over the words for a moment, then looked back up at Derek. “I need you to understand something before I go any further. You are wonderful, and perfect, and everything I never knew I wanted. So what I’m about to say now has nothing to do with how I feel about you, okay?”

Derek eyed him briefly, and Stiles really wondered if the idiot _actually_ thought he was about to break up with him. Seriously, what a moron. 

Eventually, he tapped lightly on the table once with his hand and Stiles nodded back at him. 

“I found something in this book.” He ran his hands over the pages, Derek’s eyes dipping down to them, then back up. “Please don’t get excited, and please, _please_ don’t get your hopes up, but I think... It’s about curses.” 

He saw Derek twitch slightly, eyes lowering to the book once more, and Stiles really hoped this worked, because if it didn’t, he was going to feel like fucking _shit_. Giving Kira hope, giving Derek hope. He was glad he hadn’t told anyone else. 

“I have no idea if it’ll work,” Stiles blurted out quickly, Derek’s gaze returning to his face. “I don’t know if it’s even possible to use this spell to break the curse that was put on you. But I just... I want to do this for you. You’ve done _so_ much for me, and I can’t...” He didn’t know how to continue. 

He had no idea how to repay Derek for everything he’d done for him. For giving him literally everything. He loved him. So fucking much. He didn’t always tell him, but Derek knew. Just like Stiles knew Derek loved him, even though the man couldn’t speak the words. 

It was there, in the actions. 

Stiles was the most powerful being on the planet, magic-wise anyway. A curse shouldn’t have been so much trouble, but again, the problem he kept being reminded of was that it was hard to break a curse without knowing the logistics of it. Yes, he’d figured out how to teleport, and freeze time, and make people pass out. He’d managed to do all kinds of magic when he was upset, or scared, or angry. 

But this was different. Because this wasn’t just _magic_ , but the reversal of already _cast_ magic. Stiles had spoken to Satomi about it during his last visit, trying to argue that his mother had done amazing things without even trying, but it all boiled down to the knowledge behind what was being undone. 

For his mother, when she’d saved the Werewolves and other Supernaturals at risk due to the toxins created by the Hunters, she _knew_ the cause of the illness. She knew what she could do to reverse it. Everything had a reversal so long as the original spell—or poison, or injury, whatever—was known. 

Nobody knew about Derek’s curse, not even the bitch who’d cast it on him. 

The success rate was low, but Stiles just... needed to _try_. He had to _do_ something. He had to give Derek back what he’d lost because of him, and he would fucking die trying. 

Derek reached across the table to lightly smack at his left cheek, telling him to get out of his own head. Stiles focussed back on him and let out a slow, shaky breath. 

“I didn’t want to do it without talking to you first. And I don’t know if it’ll work, I don’t. I just—I’m _hoping_. With every fucking fibre of my being. I’m _hoping_ it’ll work.”

Derek stood up after a moment, moving around the table and pulling out the chair beside Stiles. He took a seat in it facing his boyfriend, then lifted both hands in a, “Give it a shot,” sort of way before dropping them back onto his thighs. 

Stiles knew the spell by heart. He could fucking write it in his sleep. But still, he re-read it once more. And then again. And again. Two more times. And then finally shifted his chair around to face Derek. 

Bringing both hands up, he let them hover on either side of Derek’s head, not touching him, but keeping them close. He could do this if he believed, he knew he could. He could _do_ this! 

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the spell, reciting the words quietly and envisioning what he was trying to do. Mason had once said it looked like there was a black band cinched around Derek’s neck, stopping his voice from coming through. Stiles didn’t have a better image of the curse, so he focussed on that. On the band tight around Derek’s throat. He imagined it loosening, falling away, disappearing as if it had never been there. 

He focussed as hard as he could, feeling sweat beginning to break out across his skin, a headache threatening with how tightly he was clenching his eyes shut. He said the spell over and over and over again, more times than he needed to, but unable to stop. 

If he stopped, he’d have to open his eyes and ask Derek to try and speak. If he stopped, he would find out whether it worked or not. 

He was too scared to stop. 

Eventually, when it became clear he’d finished, and he was inhaling to repeat the spell again, he felt hands reach up and wrap around his. When he opened his eyes, Derek was pulling them down and away from his face, hands clenched tightly around Stiles’. 

The sad smile on his face made Stiles’ chest _ache_ , because it meant while his eyes were closed, Derek had tried to speak, and nothing had come out. 

“Maybe I did it wrong,” he insisted, almost desperate, turning to look back at the book. “Maybe I just need to focus harder. I’ll try again, maybe I messed up a word or something, I’ll just re-read the spell and try again, so we can—”

Derek kissed the knuckles on his left hand and Stiles froze, cutting off mid-sentence. He could feel his chest tightening and that distinct burning sensation in the back of his eyes that suggested he was about to start crying. He forced himself not to, to just shut down his emotions, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. 

Looking back over at Derek, it hurt even more to see him still smiling, Stiles’ knuckles pressed to his mouth. He finally lowered their joint hands, released one of them, and reached out to press his palm against Stiles’ cheek, brushing his thumb lightly against his skin. 

“Thank you,” the action said. “Thank you for trying.” 

“No,” Stiles said before he could stop himself. “Derek, I can—I did it wrong, I can do it. I can! I know that I can, I can—”

Derek leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He let the hand on Stiles’ cheek fall away, pressing it against Stiles’ chest insistently instead. 

“I have you. It’s enough. _You’re_ enough.” Stiles hated that he knew what Derek said without him actually saying it. 

“I can do it,” he insisted again, feeling moisture spill from the corner of his left eye. 

Derek didn’t say anything more in his own special way. He just shifted his chair closer and wrapped both arms around Stiles, pulling him tightly against himself and moving his head to the side so he could press his cheek against Stiles’ shoulder. 

Stiles felt himself crumble on the inside and he brought his hands up to clench into the back of Derek’s shirt, holding him tightly and burying his face in Derek’s shoulder, forcing himself to hold back the tears. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! 

He couldn’t do this. _Why_ couldn’t he _do_ this?! It was _one_ thing! It should be easy! It was for someone he loved, someone he cared about. It was so important. 

So why the fuck couldn’t he just _do_ it?! 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Treasure Island (c) Robert Louis Stevenson  
> \- Nailed It (c) Netflix


	23. Schrader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \o/ Finish line \o/

Stiles grumbled under his breath when his phone went off, because he was comfortable and lazy, and he didn’t want to move. He was tucked into Derek’s side while they sat on the couch watching a movie, the two of them wrapped in a blanket even though Derek didn’t really need it. 

Honestly, Stiles didn’t really need it either. It was getting warmer by the day, and he had a furnace for a boyfriend, but sometimes it was just _comfortable_ to be under something soft and fluffy. Derek teased him about it, but it wasn’t _his_ fault his boyfriend had bad taste and didn’t like fluffy things. Fluffy things were amazing. 

He debated whether or not to ignore his phone, but then sighed explosively and waved one hand impatiently at the television, the movie playing pausing automatically. Derek smirked at that, and Stiles felt like he only liked this one ability because it allowed them to change channels and pause and start movies without having to find the remote. 

Stiles would be lying if he said he didn’t love it too. 

Wiggling around on the couch so he was lying with his head in Derek’s lap and the blanket twisted around him, he managed to get his phone out of his pocket and sighed when he saw it was from Jackson. His home screen only showed that he’d sent a photo though, so he had to actually open the message to see what it was. The small preview didn’t help much, Stiles squinting slightly before clicking on it. 

It looked like some kind of form, and he jerked into a seated position when he saw the header. 

It was a name change document. 

He hastily made the picture bigger, and grinned so widely his face hurt when he saw that Jackson had completed it to change his name from Whittemore to Hale. 

He didn’t know when Jackson had finally bitten the bullet and asked about this, and he’d never brought it up himself because it wasn’t his business. He’d been _hopeful_ that Jackson would do it, but had honestly thought he’d have too much pride to ask.

Apparently he truly, honestly _did_ want to be a Hale. 

Turning to grin at Derek, who was cocking an eyebrow, Stiles showed him his phone. Derek took it with a small frown, and then his features softened and he smiled, staring down at the enlarged photo showing ‘Jackson Hale.’

“Did you know?” Stiles asked, Derek handing the phone back. He tapped once on Stiles’ wrist while the phone exchanged hands and Stiles shoved him lightly. “Jerk. You should’ve told me.” 

Derek’s shrug suggested he wanted it to be a surprise. To be fair, this was the _best_ surprise. 

He replied to Jackson’s text, saying he was glad that he was doing something that would make him happy. Jackson’s immediate response was that being a Hale was the worst because he was stuck protecting _him_ for the rest of his life. 

Stiles just laughed. Not only did the blood oath _not_ work that way, but Jackson had already basically been protecting him and would likely continue to do so for the rest of his life. He was just being dramatic because he hated feeling vulnerable, it was cute. 

“I’m really glad,” Stiles admitted, tucking his phone back into his pocket and lying back down with his head in Derek’s lap, staring up at him. 

Derek rested one hand on his chest and slid the other gently through Stiles’ hair, smiling fondly down at him while doing so. 

“We do good work, huh Alpha?” Stiles smiled. “We’re making a difference, right?” 

Derek tugged gently at his hair, a clear, “ _You’re_ making a difference.” 

“No, _we_ ,” Stiles stressed. “I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.”

Derek’s hand paused for a moment, then he smiled and bent down to kiss him, the position somewhat awkward, but he managed. 

Stiles honestly didn’t know what he’d have done without Derek. It seemed crazy to think that maybe he’d have come back to Beacon Hills with his dad, met all the Hales, met Deaton, and then gone on with his life. He was sure he and Derek would’ve seen each other around, but Derek probably wouldn’t have made an effort to get to know him. With his curse, he probably would’ve just kept close enough to keep an eye on him, but he wouldn’t have gone out of his way to be his friend. 

Consequently, Stiles never would’ve learned how to read Derek. He would’ve made friendly with the others, and Derek would’ve been forced to sit on the sidelines with maybe only Kira and Peter for company. It made him sad to think that all of this could’ve ended up being lonely for Derek if things had been different. 

It wasn’t that Stiles thought he was the reason people spoke to Derek, it was just that... a part of him honestly felt that he made it look so _easy_ , and that was why the others had started trying harder. It wasn’t all him, but he at least acknowledged he played a hand in the way the pack was coming back around. 

And having his original pack treat him normally was helping the new people who joined treat him normally. Hell, a lot of the new people had been trying to help with his curse, but a majority of their attempts were apparently things that Peter himself had already tried. After all, he’d been working on breaking this curse for Derek since he was _eighteen_. It had been almost eight years since this had happened to him, and Peter had probably exhausted every avenue and favour he had where magic was concerned. 

Stiles had only been trying for two and a half, and he already felt hopeless. He tried not to dwell on it too much anymore though. He still wanted to help him get his voice back, but after his breakdown in February over his failed attempt, it was clear that Derek wanted him to stop obsessing about it. 

Derek was fine. He was happy. He had friends, and a pack, and a boyfriend. He was in a good place, and he didn’t need anything else. Sure, he _wanted_ his voice back, and he _wanted_ to be able to nod and shake his head, and flip people off, and just— _be normal_. Of course he did. But he’d made it very clear to Stiles that even if he never had that again, he would be okay. He had people who loved and understood him, and that was enough.

 _He_ was enough.

Stiles tried not to think too much about what would’ve happened all those years ago if he hadn’t stopped his Jeep at that red light. What if Derek hadn’t gotten to him in time? He would’ve ended up with Deucalion, with no idea what he was, and likely would’ve been broken to become the weapon everyone wanted. 

Derek wouldn’t have been there to save him. He wouldn’t have stopped him from going Void. He wouldn’t have become such an important person in his life. Stiles hated to think about how differently things could’ve been. 

Sure, not everything about the past two and a half years had been sunshine and rainbows, but there had been a lot more good than bad for him. 

And he had Derek. That was what mattered most. 

Derek, and Peter, and Jackson, and the pack, and this loft, and the Camaro, and a family. 

He had a family, and he loved them. 

He was going to do whatever he had to do in order to protect them. 

And nothing was going to stop him.

* * *

Stiles blinked at the small envelope that was dropped in front of him, pulling it closer and tilting his head to peek through the opening on the side. He could see a small card inside, but didn’t pull it out, instead glancing up at the person who’d dropped it in front of him.

“We’re gonna get through the front door with a card?” he asked. 

“With an invitation,” Chris said, face as stoic as always, but the gleam in his eyes suggesting he was thrilled. He pointed at the envelope still in front of Stiles. “I got that in the mail two days ago. Didn’t think much of it until I opened it this morning. It’s why I called this meeting.” 

“An invitation?” Jackson grunted, leaning back against the wall behind Stiles with his arms crossed. “To what?” 

“The biggest event of the year for Hunters and Collectors,” Chris informed them. 

Stiles and Derek shared a look. Peter was uncharacteristically silent on Stiles’ other side, and Alex was pacing behind him with Rose in her arms, bouncing her slightly. She’d been sick the past few days and seemed to want more coddling than usual because of it. Stiles felt like Rose was lucky Alex was so strong, because carrying around a nine-year-old like she weighed nothing was a feat. 

“It’s why I knew so much about Schrader,” Chris explained, standing on the other side of the table and crossing his arms. “My father got an invite every year. It’s the one time he opens his doors to others with his interests and flaunts what he has. I didn’t think I would get an invitation, but I suppose with my father behind bars, when he found out I wasn’t incarcerated, he probably sent it to me as a courtesy.” 

“He doesn’t know you helped get your dad put away,” Stiles said, a little startled. “How does he not know?” 

“I’m sure he knows, but he probably thinks I did it to head the Argent family.” Chris’ smile was humourless. “Those who want power will step on whoever they need to in order to reach the top.” 

“You’re suggesting we do this raid during the party,” Peter drawled, looking unimpressed. “During the largest party of the year, when security is going to be at its highest.” 

“I’m not saying it will be easy,” Chris agreed with a nod. “But what I _am_ saying is that everyone you’ve ever wanted to see behind bars will be in attendance.” 

Stiles straightened slightly at the words, because—he was right. If this was a party for Schrader to show all the other Collectors and the top-billed Hunters what he had in his collection, there would be dozens of people there. Multiple awful, _horrible_ people who would go to either scowl jealously at the collection, or laugh at the way the Supernaturals were being kept in cages like animals. 

It was the perfect opportunity to land a massive blow on the people who usually lurked in the underworld. 

“He isn’t going to believe you showing up on the day of the party with the Spark,” Peter said, giving Chris a look. “He’s going to know that you orchestrated something.” 

“You’re right. That’s why we’re not going to do that.” Chris looked at Stiles. “We’re going to let Schrader capture Stiles himself.” 

Derek jerked violently in his seat and Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. 

“We’re going to let him do what now?” Stiles demanded. 

“I know nobody in the room is going to be happy with what I’m about to suggest, but you have to believe me when I say this is the best course of action.” Chris pulled the chair in front of him out and sat in it. He was looking right at Stiles, ignoring everyone else, like he knew this decision had to come from him. 

Stiles could feel Derek’s claws coming out, because the Werewolf’s hand had slapped onto his thigh at the suggestion of him being captured, and he was now slowly but surely shifting into his Beta form, claws digging into Stiles’ skin. 

Dammit, blood was hard to get out of denim, but Stiles didn’t have the heart to slap Derek’s hand away. 

“Schrader is a smart man,” Chris said. “He protects what is his, and if I show up with the Spark, he is going to start asking questions. People know about the raids that have been happening, and he’s going to be on high alert the moment I walk in with you, so we can’t do that. Not this time.” 

“Then what are you suggesting?” Jackson asked, but Stiles heard the tightness in his voice. It was evident Jackson was _not_ happy about this. 

“I am going to approach Schrader in advance of the party. Touch base, so to speak. Tell him I’m surprised to have received an invite, but honoured to have been included. During the conversation, I’ll drop hints that I know about the Spark, that I used my testimony against my father, not only to head the Argent family, but as an in with the pack.” He spread his hands out, looking a bit more excited as he spoke about the plan he’d evidently been concocting for the past few hours since opening the invitation. 

To be fair, it wasn’t a _bad_ plan, per se. Stiles was confident his magic would be enough to keep him safe, but the problem was: the bad guys probably knew that, too. If Schrader and Argent Senior were buddies, it stood to reason he’d have said something about the Spark. It wasn’t like Gerard had kept it a secret that he owned Stiles, he was just careful with who he told. That meant that Stiles’ abilities, and how high they’d gotten at least as of the Christmas before last when he escaped, was probably common knowledge.

Adding in the fact that over a year had passed since Stiles had been in Gerard’s custody, and it stood to reason people would assume he’d gotten better at his magic. Maybe they didn’t know _how_ good he’d gotten, but they’d know.

“He isn’t going to believe I’m helpless,” Stiles argued. 

“I know, which is why we’re going to tell him what your weakness is.” 

It was Stiles’ turn to jerk, his hand falling onto Derek’s and squeezing tightly, but when Chris focussed his attention on someone else, it wasn’t Derek he was looking at.

It was Jackson. 

“The fuck you lookin’ at me for?” Jackson demanded from behind Stiles. 

“You’re the trump card.” Chris looked _way_ too pleased, now. His stoic mask was beginning to crack behind the genius of his plan. “Schrader knows about the Hales. The Gevaudan family. He knows that Stiles will always have his protector at his side, but he also knows that Derek is his weakness. My father has a bit of a big mouth when he’s gloating. So Schrader knows about Derek, and he knows he’s a Werewolf, but he doesn’t know what he looks like.” Chris smiled then, looking pleased. “Wolfsbane doesn’t work as effectively on Kanimas as it does Werewolves, does it?” 

“Fuck me,” Jackson said around a laugh. “You want me to pretend to be Hale, because they’ll threaten me to keep Stiles in line, dope me up with wolfsbane, and expect him to behave. All the while, I’ll be seriously uncomfortable, but nowhere near as incapacitated as Hale. And because they think I’m a regular Werewolf, they won’t bother with cuffs, because they won’t think I need them since I’m not considered ‘magic’ as a Werewolf the way I am as a Kanima.” 

“Exactly.” Chris leaned forward, hands on the table and eyes bright. “I approach Schrader, tell him I’m happy for the invite, tell him I have an in with the pack, and that I can deliver the Spark to him for a small finder’s fee. He’ll have a team set up, and all we need to do is make sure that he gets _you_ with Stiles instead of Derek. Once you’re in, we wait for the party, and I can go in with Peter as my plus one, introducing him as a new Collector. We have a lot of rares in the pack, it’d be easy for us to set up a fake collection with pictures and cages and whatnot.” 

“That’s putting a target on people’s backs,” Stiles argued. “If Schrader talks, or any of the people at the party who see the pictures get away, they’ll know about our people.” 

“Volunteers,” Alex cut in, still pacing with Rose. “I’m willing to risk it for the greater good. I’ll volunteer, and I’m sure others will, too. After what the pack has done for us, putting ourselves out there is the least we can do.” 

Chris nodded in thanks, looking back at Stiles. “Once Peter’s in with me, we can make the rounds, see who’s present, find out how many more we’re expecting. Schrader always does a big speech near the end of the night, and he usually auctions off some of his least favourable items, either because they’re not as rare as he would like, or because he has a duplicate, or even because he’s bored of them and they’re no longer interesting. That’s when you make your move,” he said to Stiles. “You break out of your cage, you free all the Supernaturals, and we’ll give sign to the CIA, FBI, and the police outside.” 

“Both of them?” Peter asked, surprised. 

“There are going to be a _lot_ of people,” Chris argued. “We’re going to need both if we hope to catch them all.” 

“I don’t like it,” Peter said, the sentiment clear in his tone. “It’s risky. What if we lose them? What if Schrader calls your bluff and kills you, takes them, and we never see them again?” 

“His thoughts of my betrayal being self-serving are the only thing keeping me alive at this point, because he likes people who look out for themselves. The only person at risk is me. Even if he kills me and manages to take Stiles and Jackson, they’re both strong enough not to let him completely dominate them. Stiles will only be handicapped so long as Jackson is in danger, so if he gets him out of danger, then he can take down the rest of the group on his own. I would just rather have the opportunity to hit as many targets as possible all at once.” 

“I’m not sure I’m okay with you being killed,” Stiles said. Chris smiled at that. It was small, and genuine, and it occurred to Stiles that he was happy to hear that, despite everything that had happened, he still didn’t want Chris to get killed. 

“I know him well enough to feel confident in this plan. The only thing we’ll need to do is plan for when you’re captured, and ensure that Jackson can pull off being Derek. If he slips up even once, it will mean exposure.”

“A mute Jackson sounds like the dream,” Stiles teased, and grinned when Jackson kicked at the back of his chair. 

“It also means Derek will have to keep his distance.” Chris turned to him. “As soon as the plan is set in motion, you’re going to need to move out of the loft. Jackson is going to have to be exactly like you until everything’s over.” 

Derek didn’t seem happy about that, and Stiles almost felt like he was pouting. Honestly, it _would_ be weird. Not that Stiles didn’t like Jackson or anything, but it would be super weird to cuddle in bed with Jackson, and speak to Jackson like he actually understood him when he wasn’t using real words. It wasn’t like Stiles had deciphered Derek’s eyebrows in a day, so this was going to take some getting used to. They should probably start on that sooner rather than later. 

“When’s the event?” Peter asked, clearly unhappy but recognizing that this wasn’t a terrible plan. 

“May twelfth,” Chris informed them. 

That gave them a bit over two month to get organized. 

“Stiles and Jackson will likely need to be captured before then, though,” Peter said thoughtfully. “And we should plan ahead for my collection so we’re not rushing and scrambling at the end when the event is looming.” 

“Agreed. I know having Stiles out of arm’s reach is going to be difficult for everyone involved, but we need him caught well before the party. Schrader will definitely send out more invitations if he has the last Spark in his collection. More people to arrest,” Chris said. 

He wasn’t wrong, and while Stiles wasn’t necessarily _happy_ about it, this could be a good thing. He’d survived five months with soul-sucking cuffs with Gerard, he’d survive a few days in a cage with Jackson, he was sure. 

“So let me get this straight,” Jackson said, sounding annoyed. “You want me to pretend to be Hale, all up in Stilinski’s business. We’re gonna get ourselves caught, they’re going to dope me up with wolfsbane and use me to control Stiles until the party starts. Once the auction comes up near the end of the night, we both break out, free people, pandemonium happens, everyone gets arrested, we’re basically heroes, and we go home to have a nice romp with our respective boyfriends?” 

“That about sums it up, yes,” Chris agreed. 

Jackson’s smile was all teeth. “So, when do we start?” 

* * *

“No!” Stiles smacked Jackson with his book. “No nodding!” 

“If you hit me with that thing _one more time_ —” Jackson cut off and lunged for Stiles when he smacked him again for using his words. Stiles managed to roll off the couch and hurry around the back of it before Jackson could grab at him. 

“You can’t nod,” he insisted, somewhat frustrated. “Come _on_ , dude. You know this. Nodding is a no go.” 

“Then stop asking me yes or no questions!” Jackson snapped. “It’s an automatic reaction when I know I can’t speak to nod!” 

“I ask him yes or no questions!” Stiles insisted, throwing one hand out towards Derek, who was sitting at the table eating soup and watching the events unfold in front of him with some sick sort of satisfaction. He’d mostly been watching ever since the first day Jackson had begun pretending to be him.

Useless, unhelpful boyfriend. Sitting there laughing at them. Stiles wanted to kick him. 

“No you don’t, you ask him all kinds of questions!” 

“No I don’t,” Stiles argued, but Derek gave him a, “Yes you do,” look and Stiles pointed one finger at him. “You are not helping. This is the _opposite_ of helping.” 

“If you can do that with him, you can do it with me,” Jackson snapped. 

“No Jackson, I _can’t_!” Stiles shouted, throwing his arm out towards Derek again. “Do you think I learned how to read him overnight? Because I didn’t! I’ve been learning eyebrow-speak for two years! I don’t have two years with you! And if you fuck up, if you do _one thing_ that suggests you’re not Derek, then you are in _trouble_ and I don’t _want_ that!” 

Jackson was still scowling at him, but he had the good sense not to say anything. Everyone knew this was stressing Stiles out, because if anything went wrong, it was up to him to keep Jackson safe. That was a lot of pressure to put on him, and while he knew he could do it, he still worried about it. 

If he lost Jackson, he didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t know if he cared about him to the same degree he did Derek, and it would be pretty fucking bad if he found out by going Void while in a Collector’s house. 

Stiles was confident Void was locked away in a dark room somewhere at the back of his mind, angry and grumbling over his almost-freedom, but he didn’t exactly want to test how strong that door was. He wanted to keep Void where he belonged for the rest of his life, and he didn’t need any kind of stressors to cause the door to crack. 

Jackson let out an annoyed sigh, raked one hand through his hair, and motioned for Stiles to come back around the couch so they could try again. He complied, but he was still breathing hard when he did so, falling down beside Jackson and turning to face him with both legs tucked up under himself. 

To Jackson’s credit, he’d actually been doing really well since they’d started all of this. He was good at making what he was trying to say known without speaking, but he was still struggling not to nod or shake his head. 

Or flip people off. He was Jackson. 

Stiles knew that it wasn’t his fault. He was trying his best, and he was right. It couldn’t be easy having to stop from nodding, it was one of those automatic things. He was sure that Derek automatically tried to nod all the time, but his curse stopped him from being able to. Jackson didn’t have that, he had his own brain attempting to remember that he wasn’t allowed to nod. Honestly, the fact that he’d gotten this far already was impressive. 

Once they were both seated again, Stiles started cycling through having a conversation with Jackson, reading his expressions and trying to ask as many yes or no questions as he could to help him get into the habit of not nodding or shaking his head. 

He was pretty good at utilizing the tapping when he thought about it, once for yes and twice for no, but he usually didn’t think about it unless Stiles reminded him. He just hoped that once they were locked up, Jackson remembered it on his own. 

He spent another two hours there with Stiles, and then finally called it quits. He was going to have to live like this for days soon, he likely wanted to try and get some talking in while he could. It was going to be weird once his mouth shut and didn’t open again, Stiles was used to him being an annoying asshole. 

When he stood to leave, he wandered to the table where Derek was still sitting, having traded out his soup for a book. He looked up when Jackson approached, knocking lightly on the table to get his attention, even though he could speak. 

Probably just another layer of practice. 

“Peter says we’re switching tomorrow,” he said, somewhat softly, like he knew Derek wouldn’t be happy about it. “He wants me in the loft as much as possible, and you at the house away from us.” 

Derek scowled at that, clearly unhappy, and Stiles himself felt a little sad. They still had so much time before the plan was being set into motion. They’d only been working at this for two weeks, and they weren’t even going to get ‘captured’ for another three, why was Peter pushing up the timeline?

Stiles wasn’t going to see Derek once they were with Schrader for _two weeks_. He didn’t want to lose out on even a second with him, and now Peter was yanking him out from under him? He hated it. 

But then, Peter probably wanted to make sure nothing went wrong, and having Derek out of sight would keep his nephew safe.

Still, Stiles hated it. 

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” Jackson said, Derek grunting unhappily while they both watched Jackson head out of the loft. They listened until the door downstairs shut, and then looked at each other. 

Derek was definitely pouting. Stiles could relate. 

“Yeah, I’m not thrilled either.” He sighed and raked one hand through his hair. “Sleeping without you is never ideal.” He was sure sleeping with Jackson would be fine, and considering who they were meant to be together, they’d probably sleep tangled together, but he’d know it wasn’t Derek. He’d know, no matter what, that it wasn’t Derek, and that sucked. 

He forced himself not to dwell on it and got to his feet, heading for the kitchen so he could see what they had in way of food. The contents of the fridge were underwhelming, but he didn’t feel like going shopping. 

Moving back into the main room, he stopped beside Derek and asked, “Chinese?”

Derek shrugged and motioned for Stiles to order his usual, so he pulled his phone out and found the number for the good Chinese restaurant in town, ordering a few dishes and confirming his address for the delivery. 

He sat down across from Derek once he was done, watching him read, the Werewolf turning pages periodically. 

“Are you sulking?” Stiles asked with a small smirk. Derek scowled up at him. “I promise I’ll call you. And I’ll drag Jackson back to the house as much as possible. I’m still _here_ , I just won’t be, you know, attached to you.” 

Derek just closed his book and made a face, Stiles interpreting that to mean that he was more upset that he was losing out on time with him when he was going to be gone soon. And Stiles already knew that letting him go off into Schrader’s place for _two weeks_ with absolutely no backup wasn’t sitting well with him. 

After all, they were going to be in Montana. It wasn’t exactly a two second drive down the highway, it was hours and _hours_ away. Sure, not as far as Kentucky had been, but still far enough that if something went wrong, Derek couldn’t show up within seconds. 

“I’m not gone yet,” he insisted, kicking lightly at Derek’s shin under the table. “We have plenty of time.” 

“Not enough,” Derek’s look said. 

“Stop that,” Stiles insisted, slapping his hand against the table. “Come on, let’s go pick a movie to watch during dinner.” 

Derek sighed like Stiles was a huge pain in his ass, but obediently stood and followed him to the couch, Stiles waving the television on. They sat together while browsing through all the available choices on Netflix, but Derek ended up wanting to watch _Star Wars_ and Stiles would _never_ say no to _Star Wars_. 

They were about twenty minutes into _Episode VI_ when their food arrived. Stiles went down to pay for it and Derek grabbed them plates and some drinks. They stayed on the couch watching various movies for the rest of the night, Stiles having grabbed the cookie jar and nibbling on almost all of what was left. Derek didn’t stop him, for once. Probably because he knew that Stiles wasn’t going to get any soon. 

When they went to bed a few hours later, Stiles curled into Derek like he always was, and the Werewolf’s arms wrapped tightly around him with one hand sliding slowly up and down his back, Stiles drew random patterns across Derek’s chest while he thought about tomorrow. 

“Hey Derek?”

A grunt sounded to show he was listening. 

“Can we swap pillows tomorrow?” he asked quietly. “I know I’m not a Werewolf, but I feel like having your pillow might help me sleep. And I know having my scent will keep you calm.” 

He got another grunt, Derek’s hand still sliding soothingly up and down his spine. 

“It’s gonna be weird,” he said. Derek grunted his agreement. Sighing, he buried his face further into his boyfriend’s chest and sighed. “I love you.” 

Derek’s hand paused on his back so he could squeeze him tightly just once, and then he loosened his grip and returned to rubbing his back. 

“I love you too,” the action said. 

Stiles closed his eyes and let the slow drag of Derek’s hand lull him to sleep. 

* * *

Stiles hugged Derek as tightly as he could, face buried in his neck and holding on to him like his life depended on it. Derek was doing the same, lips pressed against Stiles’ temple and hug almost painful with how tightly he was holding him. 

Today was the day. 

Today was the day that he and Jackson were being handed over to Schrader. They had two weeks ahead of them before the party. Two weeks of being locked in cells, of Stiles wearing cuffs, of Jackson being uncomfortable from all the wolfsbane. 

Of being away from Derek and the pack. 

Two weeks seemed like an eternity. It shouldn’t, after the five months he’d spent with the Argents, but he’d never wanted to be away from Derek for any extended period of time ever again. Having these two weeks without him was going to be really hard. He would have Jackson, and that would help, but he didn’t even know if he’d _have_ Jackson. 

What if they were split up the second they got there? Chris was fairly certain they wouldn’t be, because Schrader would need to make sure Stiles knew ‘Derek’ was okay or else he’d rebel, but there was no guarantee. 

He didn’t want to be split up from Jackson, he didn’t want anything to happen to him when he was out of his immediate line of sight. 

This whole plan was stupid, why had he and Jackson agreed to this? 

_Right. People. Saving people._

Sometimes it sucked being the good guys. He and Jackson were about to spend two entire weeks in extreme discomfort. Jackson moreso than him, but Stiles as well if only because he’d have to watch Jackson suffer. 

At least it wouldn’t be too much. As long as they played this right, Schrader would only administer low doses of wolfsbane to Jackson. Enough to incapacitate a normal Werewolf, but probably only make Jackson a little queasy. He’d probably have a headache for the entire two weeks they were there though, so that sucked. 

But he didn’t want to think about Jackson right now, who was downstairs in the study saying goodbye to Ethan. He wanted to think about Derek, who was holding him so tightly it was like he never wanted to let him go. 

“You’ll be careful, right?” Stiles asked against his skin, Derek’s hold tightening on him even further. “You’ll take care of yourself?” 

Derek snarled, probably calling him an idiot, since he wasn’t going to be the one locked away in a cage. 

“I know how you get when you’re worried about me,” Stiles argued, lifting his head and resting his chin on Derek’s shoulder instead. “I need you to promise you’ll take care of yourself until I come back.” 

Derek huffed slightly, but it was as good of an, “I promise,” as he was going to get. 

“It’s only two weeks,” he whispered. “It’s nothing, in the grand scheme of things. And I’ll have Jackson. We’ll be back before you even notice we were gone.” 

Derek’s snort suggested he doubted it. If nothing else, at least he’d be able to move back into the loft. Stiles’ scent was all over that place, it would probably help keep him calm. 

He knew it wasn’t going to be easy for him, and a selfish part of Stiles wished it was Derek coming with him instead of Jackson. He knew that was dumb though, because the reason it _wasn’t_ was that Derek would be useless with a small dose of wolfsbane thrown his way. 

He may have been an Alpha Werewolf, but he had the same weaknesses as any other Werewolf. Bringing Jackson was the better option, because his suffering wouldn’t be nearly as bad, and he would be decent backup despite his discomfort. 

Derek started to pull back, but Stiles didn’t want to let go yet. Turned out neither did Derek, because all he did was lean back enough that he could see Stiles’ face, and then he pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes and bringing one hand up to Stiles’ face, brushing his thumb lightly against his skin. 

Stiles closed his eyes as well, breathing Derek in, and finding comfort in the way Derek found so many different ways to tell him he loved him. 

“I love you too,” Stiles said. “I’m gonna be okay. I’ll come back with Jackson, and hopefully a ton more people. We’re gonna run out of space.” 

Derek snorted, but just shifted to press his lips against Stiles’ forehead, then pulled him into another hug. They stayed like that for an additional few minutes before there was a soft knock at the door. 

It opened before they’d pulled apart, but when Peter spoke, Stiles reluctantly let Derek go and took a step back. 

“Time to go, little Spark.” 

“If you’re not in top form when I get back, I’m gonna be pissed,” Stiles informed Derek. He snorted, rolled his eyes, and waved one hand dismissively. “I love you.” 

Derek reached up to slide one hand along his cheek again. “I love you too,” it said. 

Stiles took one last second to burn Derek’s face into his mind, just in case something went wrong—not that he’d _ever_ say so aloud—then turned to head for the door. Peter moved aside to let him pass, then followed him down the stairs. 

Chris and Jackson were waiting by the front door. Ethan wasn’t anywhere in sight. He was probably staying behind, same as Derek, because it was hard enough without having them _watch_ the two of them drive away. 

“Be careful, little Spark,” Peter said, giving him a brief hug, then patting his shoulder while pulling away. “I’ll see you in two weeks.” 

“See you in two weeks,” Stiles agreed, then turned to Jackson. “Ready?” 

He got a shrug in response, and had to applaud how amazingly well Jackson had done at emulating Derek. He still slipped up, but so rarely that Stiles was positive Schrader wouldn’t notice. Jackson tended to notice more than even Stiles did, it was his reaction and cursing that proved he’d broken character, not so much Stiles pointing it out. If even _Stiles_ missed him fucking up, then Schrader definitely wouldn’t notice. 

“Let’s go,” Chris said, opening the door and leading the way out. Stiles moved up behind him, Jackson’s hand finding his lower back in much the same way Derek’s always did and following him out. 

He was glad Jackson was going to be with him. He was confident in their plan, and he knew it was only temporary. 

Two weeks. He could break them out if he needed to, but if he didn’t, it was only for two weeks. 

It was a good plan. They were a good team. It would be okay. 

Chris had thought this through. Chris knew what he was doing, he _knew_ people like Schrader. The FBI and CIA were both ready for the raid. Everything was in place. 

They could do this. It was going to be okay. 

Everything was going to be okay.

It was only two weeks. 

* * *

Stiles was an idiot. A complete, fucking, _utter_ idiot! He couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to follow through with such a ridiculous plan, thinking everything would be fine and dandy and that there would be no repercussions whatsoever. 

This was so much worse than when he’d broken into Harris’ place half-cocked! At least he’d known he had backup coming if shit hit the fan. Not that backup wasn’t coming, but not until the party. 

And thank _fuck_ that was tonight, because he didn’t know how much more of this he could handle. 

Stiles clutched Jackson tightly to his chest, listening to him breathe harshly through his teeth, claws digging into the meat of Stiles’ arm while the other man attempted to keep his curses in his throat. 

It wasn’t that the plan was _bad_. On the contrary, it had actually gone wonderfully. Just as expected. He and Jackson had been captured, just as planned. Stiles had kicked up a fuss, thrown a few people around with magic, and immediately stopped when Jackson’s life was threatened. 

They’d been brought back to the house, shoved into a cell, and cuffs had been slapped onto Stiles’ wrists at the top setting. He’d been told to behave or else ‘Derek’ was the one who’d suffer for it, and to prove his point, Schrader had immediately started pumping low doses of wolfsbane into the sealed cell both he and Jackson shared. 

Even though wolfsbane affected human as well, the dose was so low that it didn’t really do anything to Stiles. For a Werewolf, it would have them weak and suffering in seconds, but for a human, it just smelled weird. 

Everything had gone exactly as they’d expected. Stiles complied, because ‘Derek’s’ life was at risk if Schrader pumped more wolfsbane into the room. Jackson had been fine, because the doses were low. He’d get headaches, but that was normal, and tolerable. 

But that wasn’t what sucked right now. No, the thing that _sucked_ was that Stiles had spent the past two weeks watching Jackson positively _suffer_. 

There was no other word to describe it. Jackson was fucking suffering, the same way Derek would’ve been if he’d come with him. Because yes, Schrader had been pumping low doses of wolfsbane into the room, but that hadn’t affected Jackson very much.

And the problem was: Schrader had fucking _noticed_! He’d noticed ‘Derek’ seemed to have a high threshold against wolfsbane, even though Jackson had been playing it up. Schrader was smart, and he saw that Jackson was faking it, so every time he pulled Stiles out of the room for something or another, he’d started upping the dosage to fatal levels for even _Jackson_. Stiles had been forced to literally _beg_ to get Schrader to stop, because he didn’t see the value in Jackson given he thought he was nothing more than an ordinary Werewolf who happened to be pretty resistant to wolfsbane. 

Realistically, the only reason Jackson wasn’t dead was because Schrader had heeded Chris’ words wherein Stiles would _not_ be controlled if ‘Derek’ died. And the most frustrating thing was, Stiles could literally break them both out right now without any fucking problems, but that would’ve defeated the purpose of going through all this to begin with, and Jackson wouldn’t let him. Every time Stiles brought it up, even _suggested_ it, Jackson growled at him and dug his claws into whatever part of Stiles he could reach while being hugged to death by him. 

And Stiles understood. He did. It would’ve all been for nothing if they broke out now, and Stiles wasn’t going to let Jackson suffer _this_ much for nothing. 

So, they stayed.

But he hated it. He fucking _hated_ that this was happening. Because Jackson was a shivering mess, sweating and dry-heaving against Stiles’ chest while gripping him hard enough to break skin with his claws. 

He was holding Stiles too tightly. He was making it hard to breathe. He was _hurting_ him. 

Stiles didn’t let go. He held on to him, lips pressed to the crown of his head, and trying to push as much healing magic into him as he could without depleting his reserves too badly. Wolfsbane wasn’t an injury he could heal, but every time he pushed healing magic into Jackson, he seemed to get one percent better, and even that was worth it. 

It meant Stiles didn’t have the backup he was meant to in the form of Jackson, but honestly, he didn’t need it. He was just scared to leave his side, because he didn’t want anything to happen to him. 

He didn’t have a choice, though. Schrader was definitely going to be flaunting Stiles, the last Spark in existence, and that meant Jackson was going to be left behind in their shared cell. He hated that, and if Jackson died in this fucking room, Stiles was going to lose it on someone. 

When Jackson’s trembling began to lessen ever so slightly, and he wasn’t breathing _quite_ as hard, Stiles knew his magic had helped him somewhat and he let out a relieved sigh, one hand coming up to bury in Jackson’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

Jackson let out a whine that, any other time, probably would’ve been embarrassing. In light of everything he’d survived the past two weeks, it was barely even adequate to express the torture he’d been forced to endure. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, for what felt like the millionth time. “I’m sorry. I’m gonna get you out of here. You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on a little longer. Just a little bit longer.” 

Jackson tightened his hold on him, Stiles wincing but not saying anything. He just kept scratching lightly at his scalp and counted down the seconds to their release. 

The next time someone had the brilliant idea of using one of his friends as a trump card, he was going to punch that person in the fucking _face_. 

A few minutes passed in silence, Stiles continuing to hold Jackson and wishing he could do more than the brief spurts of healing magic he was pushing into him. When Jackson tensed and flinched a couple of minutes later, Stiles knew that meant someone was coming. Jackson always reacted now when someone was coming. 

His eyes shot to the door, a glare already in place. He didn’t even have to fake it, because he was so _livid_ about what was happening to Jackson that he honestly, _truly_ couldn’t _wait_ for the night to be over. 

There was a loud clunking sound, then a screech as the door was opened. One of Schrader’s goons walked in first, some kind of Chimera who was exceptionally strong and terrifying looking. He swept the room briefly to make sure there was nothing out of place or dangerous—deeming Stiles a non-threat because of ‘Derek’—then stepped aside so Schrader could enter the room. 

Schrader usually always had three or four bodyguards on him at all times, but whenever he visited Stiles, he never bothered with them. He only ever brought the one guy, like he was so confident in his ability to control Stiles that he deemed it unnecessary to have the others with him. 

It pissed Stiles off. 

“Hello Spark,” he said pleasantly, hands clasped behind his back while he moved further into the room. 

He was wearing a navy suit with a black shirt and a white tie. He looked just as pretentious as Stiles had figured he would be upon hearing about his collection. 

“Drop dead,” Stiles snapped, holding Jackson tighter to his chest. 

“That isn’t very nice,” Schrader said with a smile. “Haven’t I been kind to you? Accommodating? Not everyone gets the luxury of a full room, you know.” He motioned around the white-walled, windowless room as if it were some kind of five-star hotel. It didn’t even have a fucking _toilet_. Gerard’s damn basement cage had been better than this fucking place. 

When Schrader started to move closer, Stiles twisted slightly to put Jackson closer to the wall, keeping some space between him and Schrader by shielding him with his body. “Get the fuck away from him.” 

“I’m not here for him, I’m here for you. It’s time for your debut, Spark. Need you looking fresh and desirable for your first viewing.” 

Jackson snarled at that, though Stiles felt it was more a residual from memories of having been painted and put on display while with Harris. Stiles didn’t mind, he could tolerate it as long as it meant the night would go faster. 

“Chop, chop.” Schrader clapped his hands together. “Time’s wasting, Spark. Unless you’d like me to give you more of an incentive.” 

Stiles grit his teeth, and not only for show. He knew this was coming, but he was still too afraid to leave Jackson. Still, he didn’t have a choice. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could get him the fuck _out_ of there. 

“Derek,” Stiles said softly, turning back to Jackson. “I’ll be right back, okay?” 

Jackson clung to him more tightly. Stiles didn’t know if it was all an act, or if he desperately didn’t want to be left alone. It hurt him not to know, but he really didn’t have a choice. 

“I’ll come back,” he promised. “I won’t leave you here, you know that, right? I’ll never leave you, I promise.” He forced Jackson’s face out of his chest, gripping his head tightly and locking gazes with him. “I’m coming back for you. Just like I always do. Just like you did for me.” 

And because he was Derek right now and not Jackson, Stiles kissed him. It wasn’t anywhere near as passionate as it would’ve been if this had honestly been Derek, but Jackson was so desperate for any kind of reprieve that he was all in every time Stiles kissed him. That desperation made it seem a lot more intimate than it truly was, a man trying to escape the pain he was in. 

“Chop, chop,” Schrader said again impatiently. 

Stiles pulled his lips away, kissed Jackson’s forehead in a move very reminiscent of what Derek sometimes did to him, and then managed to pry his fingers off him so he could climb out of the bed. Jackson immediately whined again, and Stiles pushed his pillow into Jackson’s arms. It wouldn’t help with the pain, but it would smell like Stiles, and hopefully help keep him calm. 

“I’ll be back,” Stiles promised again, squeezing Jackson’s wrist. “I promise. I _promise_.” 

When he turned to face Schrader, he saw the man rolling his eyes, like this was all so very dramatic. Stiles wanted to punch him in the fucking face, but all that would do was give him cause to retaliate against Jackson, so he clenched his fists at his sides and moved to the door where the Chimera goon was. 

Once he was out of the room and Schrader had exited it with him, he tut-tutted at the wounds on Stiles’ skin from where Jackson had pierced through with his claws. Stiles knew he hadn’t meant to hurt him, but it was hard to control a shift when in pain. He didn’t blame him one bit. 

The fact that he’d managed to control it _enough_ to stay within the Werewolf range and not move into the Kanima range was already fucking impressive. But Stiles was glad Jackson had enough control, because he wouldn’t have been able to explain why he was paralysed if Jackson’s Kanima side had come out. Paralysing claws were only useful when they didn’t risk exposure. 

“How unsightly,” Schrader said coldly, eyes on the wounds. “Bad enough you’re scarred. Patch those up.” 

“How?” Stiles asked dryly, raising his hands to show the cuffs around his wrists. They were one of the newer models, with a tracking device and in-built electroshock, but Stiles’ momentary panic at having them snapped on him had dissipated instantly when he felt only a little cold. 

He really _had_ overcome the limit of the cuffs, and it seemed no one had figured out how to improve them yet. Which he, of course, was perfectly fine with, because it meant he could break out of these as easily as he had the ones Gerard had put him in. 

Of course, there was also the possibility that nothing ever _would_ be strong enough to contain him ever again. Not at the level he was at. Which, again, he was perfectly fine with. 

“I’ll lower the power output for you to patch yourself up,” Schrader said dismissively. “Just remember I can pump that room full of wolfsbane faster than you can apologize for doing anything I wouldn’t approve of, so I would suggest you behave.” 

“I’m not going to risk Derek’s life,” Stiles snapped. Which was entirely true, even though it was Jackson in the room. Didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t going to risk losing him. 

Schrader pulled out his phone and Stiles waited while he unlocked it and lowered the power. He pretended to sag with relief, like he felt lighter, which was always hard for him to do given he couldn’t even feel the cuffs that much anymore. He forced himself not to get distracted though and grunted while pretending to struggle to heal up his wounds. It wasn’t a hard act, considering how much magic he’d used on Jackson, but he managed to get all the little punctures healed up so his skin was smooth and whole once more. 

The second the last one closed up, Schrader immediately cranked the power back up and Stiles pretended to stumble, the Chimera catching him. 

“Get him cleaned up and ready for tonight. I want him front and center.” 

“Yes sir,” the Chimera said while Schrader turned and walked away. His bodyguards were waiting at the end of the long corridor. 

Stiles wanted to shrug off the brute holding him up, but he couldn’t show that much strength, so he allowed himself to be dragged down the corridor in the opposite direction. He was thrust into a large shower room, which he’d actually been in numerous times since his arrival. All the ‘collections’ had a communal shower, and while they didn’t all shower at the same time, Stiles had actually met a lot of them in the past two weeks. 

Some of them still had some fire in their eyes, even as they obediently cleaned off when instructed. Others honestly looked dead, like they’d given up hope, and were just washing themselves off by muscle memory. He really hoped those people weren’t past saving. 

When he stumbled into the room this time, there were already a few others there with various contraptions keeping their abilities at bay. Schrader had such a variety of beings that not all of them could be contained with the cuffs. Some of them actually had magic bands as a means to keep them in line. 

“Strip,” the goon ordered. 

“I know how to take a shower,” Stiles snapped, obediently pulling the white sweats and cotton shirt off. He’d been uncomfortable the first time he’d been forced to do it, but after two weeks, it was low on his priority list. 

He almost punched the fuckhead behind him when he was shoved roughly towards the closest free showerhead, like he’d never taken a fucking shower before. He managed to refrain, thinking of Jackson, and grit his teeth hard enough for his jaw to hurt. 

Diana was at the showerhead beside him, smiling tightly when he approached, the water turning on automatically when his goon enabled it from the panel by the door. “Hey,” she said softly. “How’s Derek?” 

“Not great,” he admitted sourly, the water cascading onto him cold as ice, but he didn’t bother complaining about it, instead reaching out for the shampoo dispenser. Fuck, he hated this place. It was like a God damn fucking _prison_. “How are you holding up?” 

Diana held up her arm, where there had previously been a rather horrific burn that had literally almost risked her losing her arm. Her smile was brittle. “Good as new. Schrader’s Witch does good work when the merchandise is about to go on display.” 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said honestly. 

Diana was some kind of ice Sprite, he thought. He wasn’t entirely sure, because it wasn’t like they had time to chit chat outside of the shower room, but he knew that she could turn almost translucent like an ice statue, and she could cause small flurries and shoot ice and snow from her fingers a-la-Elsa from _Frozen_. 

She’d only been in the collection for about five months, but had been purchased from someone else’s before Schrader. Overall, she’d been in some kind of collection for almost four years and even now, she constantly tried to escape. Her previous injury had been courtesy of a Mage Schrader had on staff who’d thwarted her recent escape attempt. 

Stiles couldn’t fucking _wait_ for the night to be over. He couldn’t wait for her to be free again. 

“Hurry up,” someone snarled from the other end of the room. Stiles figured he was speaking to his charge, since each ‘item’ in the shower room had their very own goon appointed to them. Most of them were magic, Stiles was the only one who had a beast because Schrader was dumb enough to think brute force would win against him. 

Really, so far the only reason he was ‘winning’ was because Stiles wasn’t actively trying to escape. It was kind of laughable to realize how poorly prepared the best Collector in the country was for someone like Stiles. 

To be fair, he _was_ the last Spark. He supposed he should cut people some slack for sucking at keeping him in line. 

Diana’s neighbour was quietly telling both her and Stiles about what to expect tonight, since this was Diana’s first time being part of the display, as well. The guy was positive Stiles was going to be sticking close to Schrader, since he always kept the best ‘item’ with him throughout the night as a reflection of his status. 

Great, so not only was Stiles going to be out on the floor like a possession, he was going to be with Schrader all night and have to resist ripping his face off. Awesome. 

The room was slowly but surely being emptied and refilled, the weight of Schrader’s collection heavy on Stiles’ shoulders. If they fucked up tonight, this was a lot of people who would lose their lives. Realistically, he knew the plan was solid, but still. A lot of lives on the line, so he wasn’t particularly pleased. 

When he was finally deemed clean enough by his Chimera goon, the water was turned off from the main panel by the door and a towel was thrown at him. Stiles dried himself off without delay, but when he started to reach for a fresh set of clothes like he always did from the cubbies by the door, his arm was grabbed and he was dragged from the room again. Thankfully he still had the towel in his hand, so he just covered his crotch with it while he was pulled forcefully down the corridor. 

He was brought to another area he’d never been in before, the corridor full of open doors and various outfits and people bustling back and forth. The goon bypassed all the ones near the front, dragging him all the way to the back of the hallway and shoving him through a door. There were two women in the room twittering to each other, but they stopped speaking the second Stiles was shoved into their midst and looked delighted. 

“This is the Spark? Oh, but he’s so handsome!” One of them moved up to him, inspecting every inch of him and forcing him to turn around. “I wasn’t expecting him to look this good, how exciting! We can do good work with him! Very good work!” 

Stiles grit his teeth, reminding himself _again_ that this was almost over. It was _almost over_! 

The two women manhandled him around in an attempt to get a look at him from every angle before getting started. One of them seemed to want him in a literal silver speedo, but the other was adamant that it would distract people too much because he was, “Just _so_ handsome!” 

Eventually, they settled on a pair of black shorts that looked more like tight, uncomfortable boxer-briefs than anything else. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, both in anger and embarrassment, while he pulled the accursed item on. It was tight, and not at all comfortable—like he’d correctly assumed—but he didn’t say anything and just rearranged himself as best he could. 

Once he had them on, they immediately thrust him up onto a small plexiglass podium, Stiles snapping his eyes shut when lights literally beamed right into them from all directions. The two women were twittering while he tried to blink the dots from his vision, and he could feel them _touching_ him all over. 

“Not bad, not bad,” one of them was saying. “Let’s start with the legs, then.” 

Stiles watched them wheel something over, frowning slightly at the sight of it, and then stepped right off the podium when one of the women lifted what looked like a popsicle stick out of a basin. 

“No,” he said coldly. 

“Honey, you’re cute, but so hairy. Can’t put paint on you with all that hair,” she insisted with a kind smile. 

“You’re not fucking _waxing_ me,” he snapped. “Put the paint on overtop or—”

The goon behind him cleared his throat and Stiles’ eyes snapped to the mirror. He was holding a trigger in his hand and Stiles felt rage boiling up from his stomach. He twisted around to snarl at the man, doing a fairly decent impression of a Werewolf, in his opinion. 

“Really? I won’t let these bitches _wax_ me, so you’re gonna pump the room full of wolfsbane?!” 

“Get back on the podium, Spark.” 

“Fuck!” Stiles was _not_ happy, but no way was he letting Jackson suffer because he couldn’t handle a little fucking wax. 

It took a conscious effort for him to hold back the electricity threatening to collect in his fingertips and he had to clench his hands into fists to be sure he actually succeeded. He stepped back onto the podium with such a hard stomp that he cracked one of the small lights imbedded in the plexiglass podium. 

He stared straight ahead while one of the women smeared wax across a part of his leg, breathing hard and clenching his hands tightly. He felt something press down over the wax, like paper or a cloth or he didn’t know what the fuck it was, but it pressed down, and then it ripped away. 

“Fuck!” he bellowed again, letting out a harsh exhale and looking down. It felt like she’d ripped off his fucking _skin_ , but nope. Still there, smooth and whole. Devoid of any fucking leg-hair. God dammit, this was going to be the fucking _worst_. 

And it was. It _was_ the worst. He didn’t remember if Jackson and the others had been soft and smooth when he’d gone to Harris’, but it was clear that Schrader was well above someone like Harris so maybe this was a Schrader thing. 

Having his legs waxed was fucking _agony_ , but he managed to bear it without letting his magic out. He just used words instead, swearing up a storm and snarling angrily at the women who said he was being _very_ impolite and to watch his mouth while around the guests. 

His vocabulary did _not_ improve when they migrated up to his chest. He wasn’t a particularly hairy guy, but he had some chest hair, and they fucking ripped all that off, too. He really, _really_ wanted to put his foot down at his armpits, but the goon was still holding the trigger for his cell with Jackson so he just kept spitting insults the whole while until he felt like his entire body was on fire from the amount of waxing he was forced to endure. 

If they tried to wax his eyebrows and hair off, he was going to mutiny. 

They _did_ wax his eyebrows, but not completely off. They just ‘gave them shape,’ or whatever before making sure he didn’t have any five o’clock shadows. He felt like they were just being purposefully mean when they waxed his face, but at least they left his hair alone. 

Well, insofar as they didn’t wax it off or anything. 

Once he was fucking baby smooth— _gross_!—they made him sit in the chair they had in front of a large set of mirrors and both of them fussed with his hair. One of them wanted to cut it a bit, but the other insisted it was better at this length. They ended up using a shit-ton of products in it, styling it to the side and back and slicking it down so that he looked like one of those douchey businessmen who harassed their secretaries and made inappropriate jokes. 

“Perfect!” One of the women twittered excitedly, then urged him out of his seat. 

He was back on the podium with the lights, and then the paint came out. Before they got to work on him though, they removed the cuffs around his wrists, the Chimera goon being sure to keep his finger on the trigger he held as a clear threat to Derek’s—well, Jackson’s—life. The women had already been provided with a new set of cuffs that suited their design for the evening, but they painted down his hands and up his arms in two coats before putting the smaller, sleeker looking black cuffs around his wrists. They were very reminiscent of the leather cuffs he’d worn back when he’d been learning to control the power output. 

Once that was done, they got to work on the rest of his body. He let them manhandle him around while they brushed body paint over every inch of skin. It was pitch black, the colour identical to the boxer-briefs he wore, and they literally covered him in it from head to toe. They even pushed up the bottom of the boxers and pulled down the top so they could get as much skin as possible before repositioning the article of clothing properly. 

They made him stand on the podium until the paint was dry, applying another coat, and once that one was dry, he sat back in the chair so they could do the soles of his feet, because, “It would just break the aesthetic if your feet weren’t painted, too!” 

He figured that meant he wouldn’t be getting any shoes. Excellent. 

Once the paint on his feet was dry, they made him stand on the podium again and he frowned when he saw them pull out some whites and various shades of blue. He had no idea what he was supposed to look like, but he stood still while they worked on him, the threat of the wolfsbane always present whenever the goon shifted into his field of view. 

He ignored the two women while they worked, chatting excitedly and positively _thrilled_ that they were the lucky ones chosen to work on the Spark. Apparently competition had been hot, but they were the two _best_ , which was why Schrader had given them the honour. 

They were unhappy with the scars he had on his chest and shoulder from back when Derek had attacked him while hallucinating, and Jennifer had shot him, but they just spoke to each other in low tones while working different colours into his skin until they were satisfied they’d covered them up adequately. 

When they were finished, they made him stay on the podium for a while longer so the additional paint could dry. Stiles was honestly starting to feel hot from all the lights, and he really hoped he wouldn’t sweat all the damn paint off or they’d have to do it again. 

Once was more than e-fucking-nough.

When they deemed him dry enough, they told him to sit in the chair again while they grabbed his last accessory. Stiles obediently stepped off the podium, moving to the chair, and froze when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. 

The pitch black paint he’d been covered with had been overlaid with shocks of white and blue in the form of lightning, like it was cracking across a night sky. There were spatters of white paint, presumably denoting stars, and the lines and lines of lightning were all moving in different directions all across his body. 

He hated to admit it looked really fucking good. On a canvas, he would’ve definitely wanted to hang it up on a wall in the loft. On his skin? He appreciated it a little less. But he couldn’t deny it looked pretty fucking amazing. 

Not wanting them to feel proud of their work, since he was sure his reaction was important to them, he made sure not to shift his features and sat down in the chair, waiting for them to come back. 

The bitch who’d been the roughest with the wax bounced back towards him and he recoiled at what she was holding. 

“This one will work best with what we’ve done for you. Look, we even got one stripe of lightning painted on it for you, Spark!”

A collar.

It was a mother _fucking_ collar. 

“I’m not an animal,” he snapped. 

“No, but you’re not a human either, are you?” she asked, her tone dropping to something cold and her smile cruel. “You’re just a pretty thing that Schrader gets to parade around. Learn your place quickly, hm? The rebellious ones are tiresome.” 

Stiles bristled, but said nothing in case it hurt Jackson. He just clenched his hands into fists, half-hoping it’d fuck up the paint—no dice—and allowed her to wrap the collar around his neck. He let out a small grunt when he felt a spike push through the skin at the back of his neck, not having realized it was another one of those stupid magic-sucking contraptions. While he felt the added power drain, it still wasn’t much more than a mild inconvenience. He didn’t feel any colder, just a little run down, but that could honestly also just be this entire fucking nightmare of a week. Well, two weeks. 

Either way, he wasn’t concerned. He could still use magic, and use it well. It just meant he’d have to explode off something around his neck, which he wasn’t particularly happy about. 

When the woman clipped a leash to the collar he now wore, Stiles understood what Diana’s neighbour had been saying in the shower. 

He was literally going to be following Schrader around all night like some kind of fucking pet. These people were _disgusting_! 

When they were done, the two women hugged each other, infinitely pleased with their work. Stiles just clenched his jaw and tried really hard to remember why he was there. Why he was doing this. Why Jackson had been forced to suffer for two weeks. 

The greater good. It was all for the greater good. The number of people they would take down tonight was worth it. His body hair would grow back. This paint would wash off. The humiliation would fade. 

Worth it. It was all fucking _worth it_! 

He didn’t know how long he sat waiting in that damn room, but eventually Schrader showed up. He was in a white suit now with a black shirt and a white tie. He looked startled when he walked in and saw Stiles’ reflection in the mirror, then delighted. He praised the two bimbos to high heaven for their work of art and made Stiles stand and get back on the podium with all the lights so he could get a good look at him, walking circles around him and inspecting every inch of him like some kind of prized animal. 

Stiles really couldn’t wait to wipe that pleased smirk off his face. 

“Most of the guests have arrived, so I think it’s time I made an appearance,” Schrader said, checking the time on his watch. “Remember, Spark. If you misbehave, I’m afraid Mr. Hale is not going to last the night.”

“I remember,” he said coldly. “You better make sure he stays alive until the night is through, because if I behave and return to a dead lover, you’ll wish you’d never heard of me.” 

“Don’t worry, I don’t throw away things of value,” Schrader said dismissively, reaching for the leash Stiles had let hang down his front. The cruel twist of his lips when he caught hold of it made Stiles want to vomit. He yanked hard on the collar, Stiles stumbling off the podium and right into Schrader’s space, though he managed not to touch him.

Stiles didn’t want asshole cooties. 

“You are going to be my best piece. You will behave, you will do as I say _when_ I say, and you will look as delectable as possible to make everyone envy me for having something so powerful, and so fucking _perfect_ within my grasp.” 

He was grinding his teeth so hard it was hurting his jaw, and he was positive his poor teeth would be nubs by the time he got out of this place. He just nodded once in understanding and Schrader smiled cruelly again before holding out one hand towards the goon. The Chimera obediently handed over the trigger that controlled the wolfsbane being pumped into the room Jackson was still in and Stiles watched him pocket it with bile in his throat. 

Patting his pocket to be sure the trigger was secure—and giving Stiles massive anxiety while doing so, since he could have accidentally enabled it—Schrader turned on his heel, tugging on the leash to make Stiles follow. 

“And don’t touch my suit, if that paint rubs off on this outfit, there’ll be hell to pay.” 

Stiles didn’t deem that worthy of a response, he just followed behind the man all the way through the now-empty corridor, his bodyguards falling into step around him. 

The other rooms were dark and empty, and he figured that with the party in full swing upstairs, the others were probably already up there in glass cases or whatever, and Schrader was coming up last with the ‘masterpiece’ of his collection.

The last Spark. 

Fuck, Stiles sure _hoped_ he was the last Spark, he didn’t want some other poor kid to grow up living this shitty ass life. 

He could tell when they were moving out of the ‘collection’ part of the mansion and towards where the party was based on the level of noise. It was slowly but surely beginning to get louder as they walked up stairs and down corridors, and the decor was getting more and more lavish. 

Finally, they headed towards a large set of open doors, a legitimate crowd of people inside the room beyond, talking and laughing. The women looked to be in veritable ball gowns, and all the men were in fancy suits or tuxedos. They were speaking loudly and laughing together while holding alcoholic beverages and picking up appetizers from waiters making their way through the crowds.

It was like a fucking cocktail party, except the entertainment was human beings in cages. 

Schrader called a boisterous hello to the crowd at large when he entered at the back of the room. The people closest heard him and turned, then immediately began to clap and gasp loudly while speaking excitedly to one another at the sight of Stiles. 

Obviously rumours of him had been spreading like wildfire ever since his father had passed away, but because of Derek, he’d been kept pretty isolated and out of the spotlight from bad people. Even Gerard had been exceptionally careful with him, not wanting anyone to know where the Argent estate was and being sure to only bring family and his Hunters anywhere close to where Stiles was. 

Not many people really knew what he looked like, so the room full of Hunters and Collectors were evidently all extremely eager for a closer look. 

“Yes, yes, this is him,” Schrader said loudly, hearing bits and pieces from the crowd at large while he moved further into the room, people parting slightly to let him through but sticking close enough to not lose the advantage of being closest to him when he passed. “The last Spark. Quite a specimen, yes?” 

Stiles jerked when someone literally grabbed at his ass, whipping around to snap something at whoever the fuck had done it, but Schrader yanked hard on his collar and he almost choked, the spike at the back digging in further into his skin. He forced himself to face forward again, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth while people poked and prodded at him on his way by. 

They were touching him like he was nothing more than an artifact, not a human being. People were rubbing their hands along his chest, and grabbing at his shoulders, and sliding their fingers down his arms. A few more people touched his butt, and one very _brave person_ actually went for his crotch before he neatly sidestepped them in the guise of trying to follow Schrader further into the room. 

The further they went, the more claustrophobic he felt, and people kept _touching him_! He kept hoping Schrader would bitch at them to stop because it would ruin the paint, but evidently whatever it was held up well against both sweat _and_ grubby hands, because none of it seemed to smudge or rub off.

Unfortunately. 

Stiles kept calm by avoiding looking at any of the other party-goers, eyes on all the large pedestals around the room where the other ‘items’ were on display. He caught sight of Diana in an extremely revealing white dress, her skin covered in white glitter, white make-up on her eyelids and eyelashes, and streaks of silver ribbon in her white-blond hair. 

She looked stunning.

He hated that she looked stunning, because she wasn’t an object, and he wanted to grab a jacket and cover her up. 

She wasn’t the only one, either. Nor was Stiles. All the others in the room were just as scantily clad as they were, and Stiles figured that was another ‘aesthetics’ thing. Harris had done it too, after all, so he supposed people enjoyed rare things of beauty, but also liked seeing a lot of skin. After all, people were driven by their libido, so he shouldn’t have been surprised that these men and women were enjoying seeing practically naked prisoners paraded around like commodities. 

Fuck, he wanted to burn this place to the _ground_! 

“Schrader,” a voice said loudly, and the man paused and turned, a brilliant smile on his face. 

“Well look who showed up, for once. This is a surprise.” 

“But a pleasant one, I’m sure.” 

Stiles felt his blood boil when his eyes caught sight of who was approaching them. 

Deucalion. 

Fucking _Deucalion_! 

The man who’d murdered his father. The man who’d tortured Derek in front of him. Who’d been threatening to give Derek back to Kate. Who’d been looking forward to breaking Stiles. 

Deucalion was walking over to them, not a fucking care in the world, looking pleased as pie. 

He held out one hand to shake Schrader’s free one, then shifted his gaze to Stiles. “Hello again, Stiles. I see you’ve ended up where I always knew you’d be. Would’ve preferred if you were with me, but I suppose I lost that fight.” 

Stiles could feel his anger starting to burn in his clenched hands, and he knew electricity was sparking across his palms. Fuck, he had to calm down. He had to calm down right fucking now. If he didn’t, this was all for nothing. 

He could feel the cuffs beginning to hum loudly, threatening to crack. He had to calm down.

_He had to calm down!_

“Sorry, Deucalion,” Schrader said with a laugh. “It appears he’s passed hands quite a bit since you first caught up with him, but you really did me a service. After all, if not for you, we wouldn’t have found his weak spot.” 

“Yes, the Hale boy,” Deucalion said, focussing back on Schrader. “At least that beast ended up being good for something, in the end. Good thing I didn’t kill him or hand him over to Argent.” 

Stiles’ anger vanished almost instantly, panic settling in its place at the realization that Deucalion knew what Derek looked like, but then he reminded himself Jackson wasn’t being brought up tonight. He was a boring Werewolf, as far as Schrader was concerned, so he was going to be stuck in their cell until the raid happened and Stiles could get him out. There was zero risk of Deucalion finding out about Derek not being there and alerting Schrader of anything being amiss. 

He stood two steps back from the two men while they spoke, struggling to ignore all the people touching and prodding at him. He listened to their conversation, but once they moved away from Derek, nothing they said was of any interest. 

Apparently Deucalion was invited every year, but he always declined because he was busy. This year specifically, he’d made the effort because of Stiles. He’d been eager to see how the Spark had been faring since it had been just shy of three years since he’d last seen him. 

Schrader very eagerly pointed out the cuffs and collar, and praised their ability to keep him in line, along with ‘Derek’ in the cell downstairs. They talked business for a bit, Stiles keeping track of all the names that were thrown out, and pleased whenever Schrader confirmed all those people were present. 

After at least fifteen minutes of fluffing each other’s egos, Schrader finally moved on and Deucalion sent Stiles an appraising look when he passed him, clearly looking for a way to get the Spark for himself. 

He was just glad the raid meant Deucalion would be caught up in this, too. Perfect. That guy could fucking _die_! 

Schrader spoke to a few people off and on, but nobody quite as long as he did Deucalion. As they moved through the crowds, Stiles heard a familiar voice say Schrader’s name and was almost relieved at the sound of it. 

Finally, a friendly face, even if he had to pretend he wanted to murder him for what he’d done. 

“Schrader!” 

Stiles whipped around towards the voice, and when he went to attack Chris—as scripted, given it would be suspicious if he didn’t react at the sight of him—one of Schrader’s bodyguards yanked him back hard and Schrader shifted to stand between him and Chris, having pulled the trigger out and holding it up at eye level. 

“Are you willing to cost Derek his life?” he asked darkly. 

Stiles breathed hard, eyes locked on Chris, trying to convey all the anger and hatred he could. Honestly, it wasn’t hard, since he _was_ pissed at Chris for involving Jackson in all this. He knew it wasn’t the plan for Jackson to get injured for real, but he was still pissed about it. 

“Hey,” Schrader snapped, forcing Stiles’ gaze back to him. “Behave, or Derek dies. Understood?”

“Yes,” Stiles forced out between gritted teeth. 

The bodyguard released Stiles, but Schrader kept the trigger in his hand for good measure, then turned back to Chris, looking apologetic. 

“So sorry about that, Chris. He’s still learning.” 

“It’s not a problem,” Chris said with a kind smile. “I understand his contention, but I needed the money. He’s too trusting, that’s his own fault.” He offered Stiles a smile then. “It’s nothing personal, Stiles. It was just business.” 

When Stiles went to reply, Schrader shot him a look over his shoulder and he forced himself to swallow the words back down. Pleased, Schrader faced forward again as someone else slowly came through the crowd towards them. 

“Ah, I see you brought your guest we were speaking of.” 

“I did,” Chris said, turning to motion for Peter to come closer. He obeyed, wearing his usual jovial expression and looking remarkably handsome in a smart dark green suit with a matching vest. “This is Paul Harrow, an old acquaintance of mine. And a prolific Collector, like yourself.” 

“Yes, I saw some of the pictures. Interesting pieces in your collection, Mr. Harrow.” 

“You flatter me,” Peter said, inclining his head slightly and smiling haughtily. “How can the man who managed to capture the Spark believe anyone else is worthy of being of interest?” He nudged Chris lightly. “I begged Argent to let me buy him, but I couldn’t have matched your price even if I tried.” 

“He’s the last of his kind,” Schrader said. “I wasn’t going to let him slip through my fingers.” 

“I would imagine not.” Peter smiled again, eyes shifting to Stiles and giving him a once-over. “Lovely artwork.”

“A true masterpiece,” Chris agreed. 

Peter’s expression was tight, but Stiles didn’t think Schrader noticed. It didn’t matter anyway, Peter had a great poker face, and he turned then as if something had caught his attention. “Ah, excellent. Mr. Schrader, I’d like for you to meet my son, Dean.” 

_No,_ Stiles’ brain supplied at the words. _No, no, **no**!_

It felt like he was moving in slow-motion, head turning towards where Peter was motioning, eyes widening while he slowly shifted them to the side so he could see the figure making his way through the crowd of people towards them. 

He was holding two champagne flutes, one in either hand, and was wearing the most _amazing_ grey suit Stiles had ever seen in his life. His beard was trimmed, his hair was perfectly styled, and he looked fucking _delicious_. 

Stiles had never so badly wished _not_ to see Derek in his entire fucking _life_!

Because Derek was here. 

Derek was physically in the room with him, right here, right now.

And so was Deucalion. 

_**Fuck**!_

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> \- Jackson goes through a lot in this chapter. You don't see it, but you see the aftermath. Basically he is legitimately being tortured with wolfsbane to keep him weak and ensure Stiles is kept in line, and he suffers greatly.  
> \- Stiles is treated as an object, so he is humiliated in the way he is treated (like an animal, basically) and manhandled around by people. He's forced to shower with others, is denied clothes for a brief period, and is painted up and made all "pretty-like" for display.  
> \- There is some inappropriate touching of Stiles from the party guests, but nothing more than people grabbing at his bum and touching his exposed skin. One person goes for his front but he manages to avoid that. 
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Frozen (c) Disney  
> \- Star Wars (c) George Lucas


	24. To Hear Your Voice

Stiles didn’t know what to do. He had no idea what to do right now. All he could do was look on in horror as Derek approached his uncle and Chris, not a care in the world, looking bored and like he’d rather be anywhere else. 

He couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t even mutter under his breath, because Schrader wasn’t like the Argents. He didn’t care about Werewolves the way Hunters did, because they were good security. Stiles knew there was Werewolf security in the room right now, he just didn’t know where they were.

Didn’t even know if any of the bodyguards around Schrader _right now_ were Werewolves. 

Could he risk saying something quietly under his breath? He knew Peter and Derek would hear him, but what if someone else did? 

Was it already too late? What if Deucalion had already seen Derek and was getting security over here? It would expose them all. Fuck, _Jackson_! This was the literal _worst_ position in the world for them to be in. If he didn’t manage to get Derek to _fuck off right now_ , he risked being spotted by Deucalion, which meant he’d probably get captured and then something terrible would happen to him, and most likely to Jackson, too.

But he legitimately couldn’t _say_ anything, or make any sort of sign about how Derek needed to _leave_ because Schrader was still holding the trigger for the room Jackson was in, and one wrong move would have him press the button and Jackson would _die_. 

Fuck. _Fuck_! He had to think! He had to—

“Dean, I just remembered,” Peter said, cutting into Stiles’ panicked thoughts and forcing his gaze back up to the three men in front of him. “Didn’t we have that phone conference for work this evening? It slipped my mind, can you please call Rebecca to confirm if it’s still on?” 

Derek made a big show of rolling his eyes, like he was being inconvenienced, but he passed the champagne over to Chris and Peter, shot Stiles one last glance, and then turned to leave. 

It took Stiles a second to figure out what had happened and he’d never been so, _so_ grateful to Werewolves in his life. Because he knew the only reason Derek had come was likely because, after two weeks being apart, he’d needed to see with his own eyes that Stiles was okay. It deviated from the plan, and Stiles was positive Peter had been against it, but Derek was good at the puppy eyes when he wanted to be. 

He’d only been invited because he was probably losing his mind not knowing Stiles was actually okay. And after two weeks apart, they probably figured Stiles himself would be thrilled to see him again, having endured all the hardships in this shithole of a place. And any other time, he would’ve been thrilled. 

Just... not now.

Not with Deucalion here.

And the only reason this was working out in his favour was because they were Werewolves. Stiles was so stupid, thinking he had to whisper something to them, that he had to actually _say_ something. 

Wolves could hear heartbeats, and Stiles was positive that the second he’d spotted Derek, his heartbeat had sky-rocketed, and not in a, “I’m so happy to see you!” sort of way. In a, “What the actual _fuck_ are you _doing here_?!” sort of way. 

Peter was a smart man. And Derek was a smart man. For Stiles to have been normal at the sight of Chris and Peter, and then panic at the sight of Derek, it was obvious that there was a reason for it. And thank fucking _God_ for that, because Stiles was now watching Derek slowly shift his way through the crowd to exit the room, and he could feel himself relaxing. He was fine. Derek was going to be fine. And Jackson was going to be fine. 

This was still going to work out as planned. Everything was fine, just a small heart attack, nothing critical, he needed to jumpstart his cardiovascular system anyway, he’d been getting sleepy, all good. 

Stiles tried extremely hard not to sag with the relief he felt, because he was sure Schrader would notice. Peter was keeping a subtle eye on him, like he wanted to make sure he was okay after the clear almost meltdown he’d just had. Stiles did his best to breathe. Just breathe. In and out. Only about an hour longer of this bullshit, and then they’d be out of here. Him and Jackson both. They’d be out, and Jackson would be okay, and Stiles would be back with Derek, and they could move on with their happy little liv—

Stiles’ head snapped up at the commotion by the door. Schrader cut Chris off mid-sentence, raising the hand holding Stiles’ leash in a clear, “Stop talking.” Two of Schrader’s bodyguards moved closer to him, as if wanting to be sure there wasn’t a threat to his person. 

They all turned to face the door and Stiles felt his stomach drop at the snarling he could hear.

He’d recognize those snarls _anywhere_. 

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck _fuck_!

 _Please,_ Stiles insisted silently, eyes on the crowd gathered at the door. _Please don’t do this to me, please. **Please**! Don’t make me choose!_

Sure enough, the crowd was shoved roughly aside by security, and Stiles saw the buffoon who’d been in charge of him all night leading the way back to Schrader. Two rather large, intimidating men—Stiles had heard of them being referred to as Beserkers—were holding each of Derek’s arms tightly while he snarled and struggled. They were dragging him forward like he wasn’t an Alpha Werewolf currently trying to break free with all his strength.

And, of course, right behind them, looking ten different kinds of pleased with himself, was fucking Deucalion. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Schrader asked, even as Peter stiffened and Chris cursed under his breath when they both realized what was happening. 

“Schrader,” Deucalion said as the Beserkers reached the group of men. They tossed Derek down hard, the Werewolf grunting when he landed. He started to try and stand, but one of the Beserkers punched him across the face and Derek slammed back down.

Stiles saw blood on his lips. Jesus, these things were not to be messed with. 

“Deucalion,” Schrader said lowly. “I certainly hope you have a good explanation for this. 

“I thought you said Derek Hale was locked away downstairs,” Deucalion accused, eyes narrowed. 

“He is,” Schrader insisted, though he turned to glance at Stiles then, and whatever he saw on his face was probably a very, very bad thing, because his expression hardened. 

“Then why, pray tell, is Derek Hale currently on his knees in front of you, wearing a suit and looking like he was invited?” 

There were too many people. Stiles knew there were too many people. He was strong, he was powerful, he was the fucking _Spark_! But there were too many people. 

He’d already depleted his reserves by using all that healing magic on Jackson for days on end _while_ wearing cuffs. He was currently also wearing _three_ different magic-sucking cuffs at this very moment. There had to be over two hundred people in the room, an additional hundred throughout the mansion as a whole.

This wasn’t the plan.

It was too much. 

There was no way he could do it. He was at his limit, he would barely be able to do what he had to do when the auction came up. He wasn’t going to be able to do this right now, he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_!

But he had to. Because Schrader’s expression twisted into something _horrible_ , and Stiles saw him raise the trigger, thumb poised, and Stiles couldn’t choose. 

He couldn’t force him to choose.

Derek or Jackson. 

_Derek_ or _Jackson_! 

He couldn’t choose which one he was willing to lose right now.

So he had no choice, and figured if anyone was going to die tonight, well, might as well be him. 

“Freeze!” 

The second the word left his mouth, his vision crackled black and he felt something snap in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t remember falling, but when his vision cleared, he was on his hands and knees, struggling to inhale, small drops of blood staining the marble floor beneath him. He coughed once, hard, and more blood left his lips, spattering onto the floor. 

He felt dizzy, and sick, and like he was about to pass out. His vision was swimming, he couldn’t breathe, and every sharp attempt at inhaling was like a knife right through his chest. He could see his arms shaking as they struggled to support his weight, and in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder how his mother had survived what she had done. Curing the world like she had with one spell. 

No wonder she’d been weak when Argent came for her, Stiles couldn’t imagine how much magic she’d been forced to use. He knew he wasn’t anywhere close to her level yet. He was still young, he’d been wearing a restrictor most of his life, he’d depleted his reserved healing Jackson, he had magic-sucking cuffs, there had to be over three hundred people in the house...

He knew he had a handicap right now, but still. His mother truly had been formidable. 

And honestly, he had no idea if it had even worked. His ears were ringing, his vision was swimming, and he literally had no idea how much time had passed. The collar around his neck was tight and painful, like the new position on the ground was pulling it taut against his throat. 

If he hadn’t been fast enough, then Jackson was dead. If it hadn’t worked, then they were probably all dead. Even if the FBI and CIA and local police and whoever the fuck was outside burst through the doors, Stiles didn’t know that there’d be anyone left to save. From his pack, anyway. They would save the rares, arrest all the fuckers in the room, but Stiles knew the rest of them wouldn’t survive this. 

He was scared to look up, because he didn’t want to know if he’d failed of not, but he had no choice. Besides, the collar was really restricting his breathing, which was already coming hard and fast with how much energy he’d just expelled. 

He looked up.

His stomach dropped when he saw Schrader moving and he almost lost his fucking mind before he realized Schrader _wasn’t_ moving. Stiles’ vision was swimming so badly that it gave the _illusion_ of him moving. 

Scrader’s head was still turned back, looking at where Stiles had previously been standing, trigger half-raised but not yet at a height where he’d have pressed it. And even if he had, Stiles could only hope that the wolfsbane being pumped into the room with Jackson had frozen, too. Like the Hunter’s flame back at the old man’s house when he’d been trying to light a cigarette. 

He’d done it. It had almost killed him, but he’d done it. Everyone was frozen. 

Stiles had no idea how long he could keep this up. The last time had been easy. It had been twenty, _maybe_ thirty people maximum. It was closer to three hundred this time, counting the people in the room, the people in the mansion, those still locked away downstairs, the people he’d probably caught outside from his panic. He wouldn’t be able to hold this for long, and he could still feel blood slowly dripping down his chin. 

That probably wasn’t good. 

He had to be very careful when he faced forward again, because he knew that moving someone was what broke them out of the spell. He was sure there was another way of doing it, but so far, he had to shake them or something, and he did _not_ want to accidentally jostle Schrader’s hand by making the leash move. 

His eyes found Derek and it hurt his chest to see him. He’d missed him so much the past two weeks, and he’d been so fucking scared when he’d seen him. But now, when he was literally struggling to stay conscious, the sight of him was like a salve against every inch of his skin. 

Being slow and careful, he lifted one hand off the ground, the other arm shaking in its attempt to keep his weight up, and then reached out for him. Stiles was so scared he’d be too far, that he wouldn’t be able to touch him, that he’d have to figure out a way to somehow unfreeze _just him_ without unfreezing everyone else. 

Thankfully, God wasn’t _that_ much of a dick, because he managed to curl his fingers into the shoulder of Derek’s suit jacket, and he tugged as hard as he could. 

Derek jerked and snarled, immediately trying to stand again, and then paused when he realized the Beserkers didn’t react to his movement. He looked around for only a second before recognizing what was going on, and his eyes shot to Stiles, on his hands and knees in front of him, blood dripping off his chin and one arm shaking in its attempt to hold his weight up. 

“Hey big guy,” Stiles forced out, the barest of smiles on his face. “Miss me?” 

When Derek went to lunge for him to crush him into a hug, Stiles panicked and shouted for him to stop. He was sure the only reason Derek actually managed it was because he hadn’t gotten enough traction on the marble floor with his polished shoes, and he only skid about a foot forward, just barely halting right in front of Stiles. 

“Don’t touch me,” Stiles forced out, gritting his teeth and putting his other hand back down before he collapsed. “If you move me, it might jostle him.” He didn’t have the energy to nod towards Schrader, but he knew Derek had figured it out. 

The broken expression on Derek’s face was the loudest apology Stiles had ever heard. 

“You didn’t know he was here, it’s not your fault. I know you came for me.” Stiles let out another cough, wheezing slightly and clenched his hands into fists. “I don’t know how long I can hold it. You need to save Jackson. If Schrader unfreezes before we get him out, he’s going to die.” 

Derek instantly straightened, eyes flashing red. He looked like he was about to tear someone’s face off if Jackson died, which was definitely a good thing, because Stiles really didn’t want him to die. He really liked Jackson, he was his friend.

Oh great, he was starting to have weird thoughts, that was a bad sign. He wished he could shake his head, but any movement risked unfreezing Schrader and he fucking hated that. At least if they could get the trigger out of his hand, that would make him feel better if time accidentally unfroze, but they didn’t have that option. 

Stiles quickly gave Derek directions to where Jackson was being held, and it wasn’t until Derek stood to get to him that a thought occurred to him and he panicked again. 

“Wait!” 

Derek turned back to him instantly, and Stiles inhaled wetly. Shit. 

“Wolfsbane. You can’t—if you go in the room, it’ll hurt you, too. Chris. We need—you have to unfreeze Chris.” 

The Werewolf turned to Peter and Chris without delay, and he grabbed at both of their shoulders, giving them one violent shake. Chris unfroze with a loud curse, and looked like he was reaching for a weapon at his hip before catching sight of Derek in front of him. Peter himself had shifted his weight in Derek’s direction, only to pause when he realized he wasn’t on the ground anymore. 

They both looked around, trying to get their bearings, and when Peter’s eyes finally landed on Stiles’ form, on his hands and knees and struggling to breathe while keeping the spell from collapsing around him, the man smiled. 

“Well done, little Spark.” 

“We need to get to Jackson,” Stiles said in response. “He’s gonna die.” 

“What?” Peter asked, tone hardening instantly. 

Stiles quickly relayed the same instructions he had to Derek, both about not touching anyone and about where Jackson was located. He told Chris he had be the one to enter the room because of the wolfsbane. Peter agreed to stay with Stiles, and while it was obvious Derek wanted to stay himself and have Peter be the one to go with Chris, the only reason the plan had gone to shit was because he’d shown up. He probably felt like he didn’t have room to argue but still, he hesitated. 

“You worry about Jackson,” Peter ordered him, hand on his shoulder and squeezing tightly. “I’ve got Stiles.” 

Derek still didn’t look like he wanted to go, but they were wasting time and Stiles was _not_ going to hold this spell forever. It was crazy when he realized how much easier it had been back with Gerard. Twenty people was nothing. He hadn’t even felt drained, or tired or anything. 

Now he felt like he was fucking _dying_. 

Thankfully, Derek recognized he wasn’t going to be able to hold out forever and turned to follow after Chris. Moving through the sea of bodies seemed almost impossible, but they managed to make their way slowly towards the door mostly because of the path that had opened up to let Derek through. Some people had moved back into the way, but the two of them were managing to get around them without touching them. 

Peter moved in front of Stiles and crouched, eying him with concern. When he reached for him, Stiles tensed. 

“No, don’t touch me,” he snapped, feeling his lungs closing up for half a second before he got himself to inhale once more. “You’ll jostle Schrader.” 

“I’m not going to jostle anyone,” Peter promised, slowly reaching forward. “I’m going to take these off.” He tapped lightly at the cuffs around Stiles’ wrists, hands still planted firmly on the floor. “It’ll help at least a little.” 

“You can’t. If you move me—”

“Stiles,” Peter cut off, voice sharp. “I’m taking them off. Just hold still.” 

He didn’t exactly have room to argue, so he just grit his teeth and watched Peter slowly and carefully reach out for the cuff around his left wrist. He pressed on the release and pulled it open, Stiles grunting slightly at the feel of the spike leaving his skin. He hadn’t missed that feeling at all, and hoped he never felt it again. 

Peter pulled it away from his skin carefully before setting it down beside him. Stiles couldn’t say he felt better instantly, but he had to at least acknowledge that it made breathing a _little_ easier. He was so used to the cuffs that he sometimes forgot they actually still _did_ something. Sure, not much, considering, but they still drained him as best they could. Having three on was a new experience, so he was looking forward to getting them all off. 

When Peter reached for the second one, he took it off just as slowly and carefully, and Stiles let out a sharp, relieved exhale when it was removed. He still didn’t feel great, because this many people was still a _lot_ , but he felt... not as close to dying as he did. Not that he was necessarily _actually_ going to die, but he definitely felt better now. 

“I’m impressed,” Peter said once he’d set the second cuff down. “Last I checked, you couldn’t do this spell.” 

Stiles frowned, looking at him, confused. “I’ve done it before.”

“Willingly, I mean.” 

“Yeah, I’ve done it before,” Stiles said again. Then he realized what had happened the last time he’d done it. Everyone thought he’d gone Void. They hadn’t actually spoken about how Stiles had gotten everyone arrested, and he assumed Parrish and Tara hadn’t told the rest of the pack how he’d done it. 

Jackson obviously knew he could _do_ it, given he’d been there the first time, and Derek had been there the second time Stiles had accidentally managed to do it. Really, the only people who’d actually seen it first hand were Tara and Parrish. Every time he mentioned this spell on raids leading up to Schrader, the others had probably assumed he wasn’t serious because he knew it wasn’t needed given their teamwork. 

It suddenly occurred to him that only a handful of people actually _knew_ he’d mastered this spell. 

“It’s how we caught Gerard,” he said, Peter staring at him. “After Derek, Alex and Rose left, I froze time on purpose. My first time. I’m getting pretty good at it.” 

“I think that’s an understatement, little Spark.” Peter offered him a tight smile, and it occurred to Stiles that he was trying to keep him occupied. Like he wanted him to focus on something other than the amount of power it was taking to keep the spell active. 

It seemed to take an eternity for Derek and Chris to get Jackson, because Stiles was positive that hours had passed before movement caught his attention again. For a split second, he thought that the spell had broken, but then he saw Chris picking his way forward carefully, being sure to avoid touching anyone. 

“Derek just left with Jackson.” 

“How is he?” Peter asked, an edge to his voice. 

“Alive, but not in great shape.” His eyes snapped to Stiles when he made a small, distressed sound. “He’ll be okay. We have paramedics with us. Derek’s going to get the cavalry.” 

“Not how we wanted the night to go,” Peter mused, glancing around at all the people frozen around them. “But it’ll do. Whoever isn’t here, we can get a list from Schrader somehow.” 

“Are there still many people downstairs?” Chris asked Stiles, crouching slightly beside Peter so they were all at the same level. 

“Far as I know, Schrader’s got well over fifty Supes here. I don’t see that many out on display,” Stiles said, not that he was able to move and look around right now. 

“I’ll head back down and see what I can find,” Chris stood once more. “You okay here?” 

“I’ve got him,” Peter agreed. “We’ll manage.” 

Nodding, Chris turned to head back out of the large room. Once he was gone, Stiles shifted his gaze to the side, trying to see who was on the pedestals closest to him. He was worried about them. He didn’t want anyone to still be there if he let the spell snap. 

“Can you get them all down?” Stiles asked. 

“Them?” Peter frowned. 

“The others. Can you get to them and get them all out of here? Just in case.” 

Peter watched him for a moment, but he seemed to recognize how hard this was on him. It was clear he didn’t want to leave him alone, even if they’d still be in the same room, but he eventually stood and moved a few steps to the left. 

“Wait,” Stiles said, Peter turning back to him. “Can you start with the girl in white? She was on the other side of the room. Her name is Diana.” 

Peter looked like he wanted to say that was a dumb place to start, considering where they were currently located, but he just sighed like he was regretting every decision he’d ever made in his life and moved cautiously through the crowd back to the front. Stiles closed his eyes, still breathing hard and clenched his hands against the ground, trying to keep himself under control.

He was starting to feel marginally better, probably because he was down to one cuff now, but he still wished the so-called ‘cavalry’ would hurry the fuck up and _get there_. 

The second Diana was unfrozen, he knew, because she shrieked at Peter to get his hands off her and Stiles heard the distinct sound of a slap. He would’ve laughed any other time, but he didn’t have the energy right now.

He could tell she’d only panicked because one second she’d been alone on her pedestal and then suddenly some random guy was taking her down off it. He’d have panicked, too. 

Stiles didn’t know what was going on over there, but he was sure Peter was telling her to leave without touching anyone before making his way to the next person. He knew it’d be faster to have them work together, but he hoped they didn’t. He didn’t want to risk her touching someone by accident and unfreezing them. 

He was still on his hands and knees, trying his best not to move, when he saw bare feet covered in a white shimmer heading in his direction. When he lifted his gaze, Diana was hurrying forward, looking terrified but also determined. She crouched in front of him, giving him a little bit more of a view than he was sure she’d meant to, but the dress truly was horrendously revealing. 

“Hold still,” she said quietly, and when she reached up, Stiles could see her wrists were bare. 

He opened his mouth to tell her not to touch him in case it jostled Schrader, but before he managed it, her fingers were at his throat. He felt like there was a band of ice around his neck for a second, and then she flicked the collar he wore and it cracked. 

It took him a second to realize she’d frozen it and was trying to remove it without touching the leash. Stiles liked to think that if the collar disappeared, the leash wouldn’t tug at Schrader’s hand. It would just fall away since it wasn’t connected to anything anymore.

That was the hope, anyway. Considering how terribly his night had gone, he wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t work out that way, but thankfully his luck held and when Diana carefully flicked at a portion near the back, she grabbed his arm to pull him forward and away. 

Stiles instantly reached up with both hands to break and tear at the remnants of the frozen collar, breathing hard once it was off and rubbing at his throat. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

Diana smiled, taking his hand in one of hers and squeezing tightly. Her hands were surprisingly warm for an ice Sprite. 

“Thank _you_. Your friend said you did this.” She motioned around them. “That you came to free us all. I was kind of wondering how anyone got a hold of the Spark, but I guess it makes sense if he gets caught on purpose.” She smiled slightly. “Thank you.” 

“Eh,” Stiles raised one hand in a lazy wave, still feeling drained but much better than he had been. “Don’t mention it.” 

Diana smiled and helped him to his feet. When he stumbled, he told her to set him back down. He didn’t want to fall into anyone, so it was safer for him to stay seated. 

She’d just gotten him back on the floor when Stiles heard what sounded like a fucking stampede coming through the house. Diana turned to the door, looking concerned, but Stiles knew it was just the police and government agents. 

He looked up at Schrader through narrowed eyes, barely able to stand the wait before the asshole was put into cuffs and his assets seized. 

“I can’t decide,” Stiles said darkly. 

Diana turned to him, still crouched beside him with one hand on his shoulder. She frowned slightly, the white makeup she wore making her look ethereal. “Decide what?” 

“Whether I want Kincaid to cuff him, or McCall.” 

* * *

Stiles didn’t manage to keep the spell up for much longer. He’d been wearing cuffs for two weeks, and even if he could still do magic with them, he’d used a lot of exhausting healing magic on Jackson, and had gone a bit above his own limit with freezing everything. 

It didn’t end up being a problem though. The police prioritized getting the victims out first, one of them coming to fetch Diana. They managed to do it with minimal jostling. A few people were unfrozen, but restrained before they could shove and break the spell on more people. 

Peter came back to Stiles’ side once the police took over his job, and he wrapped his suit jacket around Stiles’ shoulders. He was still crouched beside him when the spell broke. By then, all the victims had been evacuated from the room, and a few of the accidentally unfrozen people had also been taken away. 

It was pandemonium once the spell broke though and Peter snarled while covering Stiles as best he could with his body. The number of agents and police present, while fewer in number, were still extremely well-equipped to deal with the chaos, and Stiles was pleased when not a single person managed to escape. 

Agent McCall _did_ end up being the one to cuff Schrader, and the man looked murderous while it was happening, glaring down at Stiles hatefully. 

“You’ll pay for this,” he snarled viciously. 

“That’s my line.” Stiles smiled, his teeth a stark white against the black paint he wore. “Enjoy prison, asshole.” 

“Let’s go.” McCall gave the man a rough shove while leading him out of the room. Stiles watched them go while others worked at arresting the rest of the people left in the room. 

Now that it was getting a little emptier, he realized how cold he was. It may have been spring outside, but with the looming heat, the air conditioner inside the mansion was on full blast and he was wearing booty shorts. It had been fine back when there had been tons of bodies in the room, but now, not so much. He was glad for Peter’s jacket. 

Besides, he was sure the cold wasn’t all the air con. It was probably also because of the magic deficiency.

“So be honest,” Stiles said, Peter beside him with one arm around his shoulders, likely to try and keep him warm, “do these booty shorts make my butt look big?” 

Peter let out an aggrieved sigh before turning to look at him. “You’re an idiot.” 

“I notice you didn’t answer my question. Maybe I should cut back on the sugar.” 

“Thank God, my relief is here before I hit you.” 

“What?” Stiles turned and saw Derek hurrying towards him. He’d probably been kept out while the police and agents were getting everyone organized, but Stiles was sure Derek hadn’t let them bully him around for long. 

The place was mostly cleared out anyway. 

Derek was in front of him instantly, hands on either cheek and inspecting him from head to toe. Stiles just offered him a lazy smile and leaned forward into his touch. Derek shifted to wrap him in a tight hug, and it felt so nice to be pressed against him again. 

Two weeks wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things. Nothing like five months. But still, to be away from the people he cared about, to be alone with an always-on-the-cusp-of-death Jackson, to be scared and worried about what was coming next...

It was so nice to be back in familiar territory. 

He curled his fingers in the back of Derek’s suit, burying his face in his neck. “Missed you,” he said quietly. 

The squeeze he got in return said he’d missed him, too. 

“Kind of anti-climactic, right?” Stiles asked once he’d pulled away, though he leaned heavily into Derek, who kept his arms around him protectively. It was nice, it was keeping Stiles warm. “We were all expecting some big gun-wielding showdown, and instead it was just a brief scuffle before everyone kind of surrendered.” Actually, when Stiles thought about it, it was kind of like Gerard all over again. No big explosions or crazy, maniacal laughter, or any of that awesome Hollywood shit. Just a bunch of cops and agents rushing into a huge room and cuffing people who were too rich to know how to defend themselves.

Really, only the Hunters had been any trouble, and even they hadn’t put up much of a fight. It was almost disappointing. 

“It’s better this way,” Peter said, looking around at what remained of the enemies being taken away. “Any time we can win a fight without _actually_ having to fight and put lives at risk is best.” 

Stiles hummed in understanding, because Peter wasn’t wrong. He was much happier having everyone safe than to have had the risk of a gunfight breaking out and someone shooting at him and Peter. He knew Peter would’ve protected him with his life, and Derek would’ve run in no matter what at the first shot, so it was probably best things hadn’t gone down that road.

Very cool to watch on the screen. A little less so to watch from up close. 

“You’re probably right,” Stiles agreed. 

Their short reunion didn’t last long, because Kincaid came back after most of the room had cleared out. The agent eyed him briefly while Derek held him protectively, and let out a small hum. 

“You look surprisingly good in that paint,” he informed him. 

Derek snarled and Stiles flipped him off. Kincaid didn’t react to either action. 

“We need to take your statement.” 

Oh. Right. That. Ugh, Stiles so wasn’t in the mood for that right now. Not after everything he’d just been through. It had been quite the night. 

But, it was part of the deal, so Stiles asked for clothes first and the three of them were led out of the room. 

When Stiles got outside, it was insane how many cars and flashing lights he could see, but he didn’t focus on them for too long. He just followed Kincaid towards one of the black, unmarked SUVs, Derek pressed against his side with one arm wrapped around his shoulders and Peter on his other side. He had to wonder if the cars had on-off switches for the magic that made them less noticeable, because he felt like they were hard to ignore right now. They must have, otherwise even Derek and Peter wouldn’t be paying attention to them.

Besides, if there was no off switch, people who _weren’t_ like him would climb out of the car and never find it again. Actually, now he was envisioning Kincaid wandering aimlessly through a parking garage trying to find his own car. It helped make him feel a fraction of a percent better.

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him, likely at the smirk on his face, but he waved it away as unimportant and they all climbed into the SUV, Peter in the back with Derek and Stiles since McCall had taken the passenger seat. Evidently he didn’t want the FBI cut out of this conversation. 

Surprisingly, they weren’t brought to some huge government facility, but instead to the hospital. Kincaid wanted to get Stiles checked out to make sure he was okay, which he was. Mostly, anyway. He was suffering from magic deficiency, but after five uncomfortable hours of poking and prodding, they didn’t have any other news for the agents about him. All his injuries had healed themselves with his magic once he’d gotten enough sugar into him, so he figured whatever he’d done to his insides to cough up blood had healed along with them. 

Jackson was in the same hospital, in critical condition, but Peter just insisted that he was a tough asshole and he’d be fine. Ethan and Aiden were with him, which was when Stiles found out just how many of the pack had shown up. 

Cora, Boyd, and Scott were back at the hotel, having been sent off after Jackson had been admitted since the twins were more than enough to keep an eye on him. Chris and Parrish were out with the local police, likely to make sure none of them were getting bought off, though Stiles was positive the CIA and FBI were on top of that. 

And of course, Derek and Peter were sticking close to Stiles. 

Once he was discharged from the hospital, Kincaid and McCall took him to the police station. Apparently that was the agreement because they’d fought earlier over which agency’s headquarters he’d be taken to and Parrish had been the one to snap for them to just go to the police and save everyone the headache. 

Stiles refused to give his statement without Derek in the room, because they’d been apart long enough, and really, he kind of needed some comfort after the fucking rollercoaster of emotions he’d felt the past few hours. Kincaid bitched about it, but McCall didn’t care. From his perspective, Derek may as well have been a fucking painting, given he couldn’t speak, so it wasn’t like he was going to either repeat what he heard, feed Stiles lines, or interrupt the conversation. 

Peter waited outside, but Stiles knew he could hear him. He told the two agents everything about what he knew, and was positive Jackson could tell them more given his enhanced hearing. He still had paint all over his body, the hospital only having rubbed off a bit of it to get needles into his arms or access parts of his skin they needed to, so it was a rather uncomfortable hour and a half for him. 

When he was finally told he could go, they headed out to the front together where Chris and Parrish were waiting with Peter. 

Without missing a beat, Stiles closed the distance and punched Chris as hard as he could across the face. The man stumbled, almost tripping over some chairs and falling on his ass, but Parrish managed to grab at him before he fell and both Peter and Derek grabbed for Stiles when he went to take another swing. 

“Don’t you _ever_ put the people I care about in danger again,” Stiles hissed angrily. “I don’t care what you’ve done for me, but Jackson almost died in that place. If you _ever_ risk someone I love like that again, you will be very, _very_ sorry.” 

A few officers had approached, likely to ensure things didn’t escalate, but Chris only nodded once curtly, reaching up to brush the back of one hand lightly against his smarting cheek. 

“It was never my intention to put Jackson in harm’s way. I apologize for what he went through. And what you did at the sight of him. I know it must’ve been difficult seeing him suffer like that. I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles clenched his jaw, still extremely pissed, but a part of him recognized it wasn’t Chris’ fault. He was just fucking _mad_ that he’d almost lost Jackson because of the idea Chris had had. It wasn’t that it was a bad idea, just... they should’ve thought it through more. Sure, Jackson could’ve worked harder at looking weak when the wolfsbane hit, but it wasn’t like either of them had been warned that Schrader was genius-levels of smart. Jackson hadn’t exactly been _obvious_ , but apparently obvious enough for someone like Schrader.

“How many people did we save?” Stiles asked, voice curt while turning away from Chris. He wasn’t going to acknowledge the apology, but he wasn’t going to hit him again, either. At least, so long as he stopped looking at him. He just headed for the station’s exit so they could get the fuck out of there. 

He didn’t know if the others had already given their statements, or if they just didn’t need to. To be fair, wasn’t like Chris and Peter would’ve had long statements to give, considering their short stint in the house. 

“They’re still being looked over and interviewed, but the last number I got was one-hundred and twelve, excluding you and Jackson,” Parrish answered. 

“Wow,” Stiles said, honestly shocked. He knew Schrader had a huge collection, but he hadn’t realized there were _that_ many. He’d heard from some of the others in the shower room that Schrader had a huge underground maze of rare Supernaturals, but how many of them could honestly be classified as ‘rare’ if he had over a hundred of them?! 

Then again, he also remembered Chris talking about how he was a Supernatural trader, so it was entirely possible a majority of them weren’t actually rare and just regular Supernaturals being kept captive for eventual sale. 

“We can’t accommodate that many people,” Peter said with a small frown while they headed for the lot. Stiles figured Parrish and Chris had a car for them, since he and the two Hales had arrived in Kincaid’s SUV. 

“We can’t,” Parrish agreed. “Trouble is, a majority of them don’t seem too keen on the government having them in their grasp. Most of them agreed to go off with whoever was assigned to them, but I spoke to all of them in groups before they were taken away, like you asked. Gave them Alex’s usual spiel, and I’d say a good ninety percent of them want to join the pack.” 

“That’s too many,” Peter said, lips turning down slightly. “I don’t want to turn away anyone who has nowhere to go, but—”

“Call Satomi,” Stiles said instantly, stopping and turning to Peter. “Call Satomi and tell her what happened. I’m sure she can spare some room, and she’s got an _amazing_ pack. And she probably knows other packs that she trusts. We can probably spread them all out across a few different packs, just so that they don’t end up in the government’s hands.” 

“Most of them will want to be with the Spark,” Peter informed him pointedly. 

“Satomi’s pack is an ally. And I’m sure we can make friendly with whatever other packs she recommends.” He shrugged. “We’ll figure it out, but we have to find them places to go so that they can stay free. No one wants to trade one cage for another. Take it from someone who knows.” 

Derek tightened his grip on Stiles’ shoulders, likely in apology given how Stiles had grown up and lived the past few years. It was one prison after another, really. Up until he’d really gotten his Spark powers under control, he’d never really had any freedom. 

“I’ll call Satomi,” Parrish confirmed when they were all silent for too long. “I’ll find out how many she can take, and call Isaac to see how much room we can spare back home. We’ll divvy people up from there.” 

“One thing,” Stiles said, turning to Parrish. “There’s a girl, Diana. She’s an ice Sprite. If she was one of the rares who wants to stay with us, she comes to Beacon Hills.” 

Parrish nodded, and when Stiles turned back to Derek, he got a cocked eyebrow in inquiry. Stiles just shrugged. 

“I like her. She was nice. And she kind of reminds me of Jackson in that she was caged for most of her life, but kept her spirit. I think she’ll fit in well with the rest of our pack.” 

Derek just shrugged in a, “Whatever you say,” sort of way and then pulled him slightly with the arm still around his shoulders, making him walk again. 

They finally reached the rental car, Parrish having parked it a ways down the road since most of the lot was full of government vehicles. It was a regular four-door Sedan and Stiles was crammed into the middle in the back between the two Hales again. 

When they got to the hotel, it was awkward having Stiles walk through the lobby painted black from head to toe, wearing a pair of dark blue sweats and a white shirt the FBI had been kind enough to give him, since apparently the CIA hadn’t had the forethought. The shirt contrasted against his painted skin, and he felt like his entire appearance clashed horribly with Peter’s jacket still around his shoulders. 

Derek had a protective arm around him and snarled at anyone who looked their way. Stiles knew it was more in an attempt to save him the embarrassment than protectiveness, but he didn’t think the snarling was helping. 

The pack members were spread out across three rooms, but they all crowded the corridor when they heard them coming. Cora hugged him so tightly that he was sure a few vertebrae popped. Boyd quietly gave them an update on Jackson while Scott offered Stiles various sandwiches and pudding cups. 

He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until his eyes landed on a sandwich held out to him and he practically inhaled it, almost choking. Food was a luxury they had been denied frequently. He couldn’t wait to get home and have some diner food. 

They went into one of the rooms so everyone could be brought up to speed, and Stiles took the opportunity to grab a shower since he wanted out of this gross paint _now_. 

Despite standing under the spray for almost an hour, and scrubbing so hard he was hurting himself, the paint used on him had stained his skin. It had all come off, the water running clear when it went down the drain, but he still had a black hue to his skin that was way too reminiscent of Void for comfort. 

Still, he gave up when he was sure he’d use up all the hot water and eventually stepped out. No one said anything about his appearance when he exited the bathroom in a loose shirt and some sweats they’d brought from home, but it was clear they’d noticed his sour mood over it. Derek just wrapped an arm around him and kissed his temple when Stiles fell down beside him on the closest bed. 

They hadn’t been planning on spending another night, having only booked the bare minimum of rooms since they’d arrived the day before. They were supposed to be leaving once Stiles and Jackson were out and had given their statements, but with Jackson still in the hospital with wolfsbane poisoning, they had no choice but to stick around. 

Stiles didn’t mind, he was glad to be back with his pack, even if there was more bed sharing than the rest of the people present were happy with. 

Boyd and Cora took the other bed in the room with Derek and Stiles. Chris, Peter, Parrish and Scott managed to have a bed each only because Aiden and Ethan didn’t come back from the hospital that night. 

Stiles slept badly, worrying about Jackson, and it felt like it took entirely too long for him to get better.

They ended up staying in town three days after the rescue, Peter and Parrish making various phonecalls around for packs that they knew and trusted to take a few rares. Satomi, of course, was the first call and agreed she could spare room for at least twenty-seven. It was a lot more than Stiles expected, and he was grateful. 

Their pack could handle another twelve, which was really unfortunate, but it was the best they could do considering how many others they’d already saved. 

By the time they were done with calling around, including the packs Satomi knew and trusted, they managed to find places for about eighty-five percent of the people who wanted to stick with a pack. Peter ended up calling the mayor to find out if maybe the town would be willing to house extra guests since they’d already basically exhausted the other areas they could shove people, including Stiles’ old house. 

When Jackson was released from the hospital and they were getting ready to head home, they got good news that a lot of the townspeople of Beacon Hills were willing to take in one or two people, as space permitted. Stiles was overwhelmed when he heard Sal the construction worker had agreed to take in five people. _Five_! 

And the old man in the house where Gerard had been arrested, Robert Davis, had agreed to take in _seven_ , because he had room to spare and could use some help around the house now that he was getting up there in age. 

Beacon Hills really was an amazing place to live, and Stiles was so grateful his mother had moved there. 

They met Jackson at the hospital, and the guy broke away from the twins when he spotted Stiles, kind of hobbling his way over to him as fast as he could. Stiles showed him mercy and met him halfway, hugging him tightly once they reached one another, Derek having followed after him slowly. 

Jackson let out a slow exhale against Stiles’ skin, holding him tightly before smacking his back a few times and pulling away. 

“Thanks Stilinski.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said in response. “I wish I could’ve done more.”

“You did enough,” Jackson grunted, the twins reaching them, both with their hands in their pockets and looking eerily identical in that moment while staring at the pair of them. “You helped more than you know.” 

“We saved over a hundred people,” Stiles said, because he needed Jackson to know his suffering hadn’t been for nothing. 

“I heard. Word has it Diana’s pretty excited to be coming home with us.” 

“Her and Erica are gonna be a nightmare together,” Stiles said with a sigh. 

Jackson smirked, shaking his head. “I was thinking the same thing.” 

Stiles had no idea how he’d gone from living alone with his father to this giant found family, but he was so grateful for it. 

He loved all these people with everything he had, and he couldn’t wait to see what was coming next. 

“Come on, pretty boy,” Stiles said, slapping Jackson in the back before turning to melt back against Derek’s side. “Let’s go home.” 

Stiles was going to sit down on the couch with a pizza, some brownies, a bad movie, and a hot Werewolf boyfriend wrapped around him for a week when he got back to the loft. 

He couldn’t _wait_. 

* * *

Sweat beaded across Stiles’ forehead as he concentrated, Jackson snapping at him to watch it when he almost hit him in the head with the beam he was levitating onto the roof. Stiles snarled something rude back at him, but was too busy trying to focus to figure out what had come out of his own mouth.

For all he knew, he’d told Jackson he looked like a fish. It was hard to be creative with insults when one wrong move would have him crush Boyd and Isaac. 

When he finally lowered the beam into their waiting hands, he broke off and let his hands drop, breathing hard and wiping his hand across his forehead. The two Werewolves repositioned themselves to set the item up accordingly while one of the town’s engineers was off to the side speaking to Peter. 

“Here you go!” 

Stiles turned to look beside him at Rose, who was beaming up at him while holding out a juice box. He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face and took it from her. 

“Thank you.”

“We’re gonna have a lot of neighbours, huh?” she asked, looking over at the new house being built. 

“Yup,” Stiles agreed. 

“I’m sad for the trees.”

He reached out to pull her into a small, one-armed hug. “Me too, kiddo. But that just means we’ll have to plant as many as we can around the paths once all the houses are built.” 

That made her smile up at him happily and then she gasped and went to grab another juice box before skipping over to Derek, who’d just come around from the back of the house. He looked particularly delicious, wearing jeans and a soaked-through white tank top. It was getting warmer by the day, but the number of people they had to accommodate wasn’t getting any smaller. 

The good thing about having so many people was that they all came from different walks of life, and while before it had mostly been the pack and a few construction workers who’d agreed to lend their services for free—courtesy of Sal, who was fucking amazing—now it was so much more. 

Devon was an Elemental like Rose, but he could control wood and leaves—kind of like some weird tree-specific Elemental—and he’d been insanely useful in getting them lumber since he could basically flick his hand and have perfectly even planks of wood laid out in seconds. 

Janice was a Valkyrie—because apparently, that was a real thing and not just Tessa Thompson looking dope in a Marvel movie—and while her abilities didn’t do much on the usefulness front, she was also an electrician by trade before she’d been taken by Schrader’s men, so she was basically single-handedly setting up the nearly completed house a few yards to the left. 

They also had Max and Jessica, both of whom were engineers, as well as a lot of power-type Supernaturals like Jackson, Alex and the Weres, meaning they could carry heavy objects that normal humans would need cranes and forklifts for. 

Having help meant they were moving along more quickly than they had been, because they could work on multiple houses at once. They’d already finished up two in the past two weeks, and were almost done with a third once the wiring was complete. 

Stiles and the original pack were working on the fourth and he knew that Alex, Devon the wood Elemental, and some other newbies were already working on starting the foundation for a fifth. At the rate they were going, they’d probably finish up before winter, which was kind of the plan.

It was harder during the week though, since all the townspeople had jobs, and some of the new people had managed to snag their own jobs, but everyone made time to help out. 

The owner of the diner Boyd worked at actually came out once a week with free food for the workers, and more than once other townspeople who weren’t able to help had dropped by with household items to furnish the new places with, along with food and drinks to keep everyone’s energy up.

It overwhelmed Stiles every time he saw how much this town cared, and he was going to protect every last person in it to his dying breath. Not that he was too concerned anymore, given news of what had happened at Schrader’s had spread like wildfire. 

Chris had confirmed that the ‘underworld’ had heard about the Spark’s latest victory, how he’d taken down Schrader—who was _extremely_ well known, though Stiles hadn’t realized _how_ well known until now—and almost fifty other top-tier Collectors and Hunters all in one go. 

People were afraid of this pack. 

This pack, with the cursed Alpha, who was fiercely protective of those he cared about.

With the quiet but deadly strategist, who hid his malicious intentions behind jovial smiles and cutting remarks. 

With the loud and angry Kanima, who pretended he cared about nothing and no one but would murder anyone who touched his family.

With the Banshee who just wanted to belong, and the Hellhound who’d made friends despite his Supernatural race. With the Metamorph who’d longed for a safe space to rest her head, accompanied by the young earth Elemental who just wanted to live a normal life. With the Hunter and his daughter, who didn’t want to hurt people, and needed help finding a way to escape from the life they’d never asked for. 

With the Spark, who’d known nothing about what he was, and had gained a giant, loving family along the way. 

People spoke about the Hale pack, which was over fifty members strong, and they knew never to cross them. They spoke about the town they lived in, where setting foot across the line with the intent to harm anyone in it would have the people rise up against them. They spoke about this place like it wasn’t even real anymore, but it was plenty real to Stiles, because this was the place his mother had called home. This was the place his father had kept their house.

This was the place Stiles was going to spend the rest of his life, with the cursed Alpha, and the deadly strategist, and the loud, angry Kanima. 

This was home. This was his family. He never thought he’d be able to have that before, considering how he’d grown up, and some days he still felt overwhelmed when he thought about it. 

He wished his dad were still here. He hoped he was watching, somehow. He hoped he could see that Stiles was doing okay. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Stiles jumped, almost choking on the juice he’d been sipping. Well, more on the straw, since he’d finished the juice box a while ago and had mostly just been sucking air and chewing on the plastic. He turned and found Deaton standing beside him, not even having heard him approach.

He was wearing his usual mysterious smile and had his hands clasped in front of himself. Stiles didn’t see much of Deaton anymore. Sure, he saw him around, and the few pack meetings they’d had, the man had been invited, but he wasn’t _really_ pack anymore since retiring as Emissary so he wasn’t around for the Christmas party or any of the events Peter put on. Even before his retirement he hadn’t really been invited. Stiles felt inclined to believe Peter didn’t like him much. 

And to be fair, those events were usually only for the original pack, including the Argents, Jackson, the twins, Alex and Rose. They were basically part of the original pack, at this point, since they were the people who’d joined _before_ everyone had gone wild letting captured Supernaturals stick around town. 

Stiles and Erica were still arguing to let Diana be part of the original pack events, but Peter hadn’t budged on that front. 

As predicted, Erica and Diana were like two peas in a pod, it was terrifying to everyone around them. Mostly Boyd, who just looked _so tired_ every time Stiles saw him. He kind of felt bad for the guy, it must be hard having two high energy girls around _all the time_. 

“Hey,” Stiles said to Deaton, offering him a small nod. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. How have things been at work?” 

“Busy,” Deaton said with a smile, turning back to the house. “But it always is. Scott’s been a great help, but school made it difficult for him to maintain more hours. With summer finally here, it’s been nice having a full time staff member around. Things were beginning to get a little overwhelming.” 

Stiles didn’t comment on the fact that Deaton could just _hire more people_ , but that was a battle Scott had already lost. Deaton was fond of him, and he wasn’t really willing to take on anyone else. Besides, Scott was guaranteed a job after graduation, and it paid really well, so he wasn’t complaining. 

Much, anyway. The long hours made dates with Allison harder. 

“I’m glad things are going well,” Stiles said, looking back at the house as well. He smiled when his eyes caught sight of Derek, who was carrying Rose in one arm while she held the juice box up for him to drink from, and was giving out random orders to the people around her, pointing her free hand at them. 

It was cute. Stiles loved that Rose was so enamoured with Derek. And Derek was so good with her, it made him happy to watch them together. 

Derek was definitely her favourite after Alex. 

“How have things been with him?” Deaton asked. Stiles turned to him with a frown, not sure he understood, but the man smiled and motioned Derek. “I know you weren’t comfortable finding out you were his Emissary, but I trust things have been going well?” 

“Better than I thought,” Stiles admitted. “I guess once I really just figured out I already basically _was_ his Emissary, it made it easier for me. I just had to keep doing what I was doing.” 

“Indeed.” Deaton smiled. “And your relationship with Derek? How has that been going?” 

Stiles knew he had a dopey smile similar to Scott’s at the question, and he tried to pull it back to something less embarrassing. 

“Good,” he admitted, facing Derek and Rose again. “Really good. Sometimes I can’t believe he’s not sick of me yet, but I’m going to keep him as long as he’ll have me.” 

Deaton hummed, and when he spoke next, Stiles turned to him sharply, not at all liking where this conversation was going. 

“Are you sure about this? You and Derek, I mean.” 

“Of course I am,” he snapped, facing him fully and crossing his arms. He felt ridiculous trying to look intimidating while holding a juice box in one hand, but he didn’t let that bother him. He just stared down Deaton. 

He held one hand up in a calming manner, as if silently trying to tell him he meant no offense, and when he continued, Stiles understood why he’d asked. 

“You’ll truly be the last,” he said quietly, eyes roving over every inch of Stiles’ face, as if searching his expression for something. “If you stay with Derek, if you don’t procreate, you’ll be the last.” 

The last. Stiles knew he was the last Spark. People reminded him of that all the time. Every person who’d ever come after him was a reminder. Every time the Hales got overprotective was a reminder. Every time Stiles used magic was a reminder. 

The last Spark in existence. The absolute last one ever. Deaton was right, if he didn’t have kids, then the line ended with him. Sparks were born, not made. While it was true they’d _once_ been made, that was also true of every other Supernatural creature. Each one of them didn’t exist at one point, and then they did. Sparks were no different, except unlike Vampires or Werewolves, they couldn’t just pop up conveniently. They had to be born from another Spark, and if Stiles was the last, he was the only one who could create another Spark. 

He looked back over at Derek, who was beaming at Rose and holding his free hand up for a high-five, which she very happily gave him. He shifted her around so she was on his shoulders, and then motioned for her to tell Erica off, because she was slacking in her duties helping Isaac and Scott install a window, which she was extremely good at doing. Rose very happily—and loudly—obliged. 

“I think I’ve lived enough of a life as a Spark to know I wouldn’t wish this on anyone else,” Stiles finally said, smiling slightly at the sight of his boyfriend with Rose. Maybe he _did_ want kids, just not his own. He could adopt, just like Alex had officially done with Rose recently, courtesy of a lot of help from Peter. He was sure Derek wouldn’t mind in a few years, when they were both more settled and could actually afford to have a kid of their own. “I’m fine being the last Spark.” He turned back to Deaton and shrugged one shoulder, arms still crossed. “I’m fine letting the Prawdzik line die with me. I’m fine letting the Gevaudan line finally be free of their oath.” 

Deaton nodded once, turning to look over at Derek and Rose. “I suppose you’re right. Nobody could understand the hardships of a Spark as much as a Spark could. If this is what you think is best for everyone, I can respect that decision.” 

“There’s always going to be someone out there who becomes ‘the most rare Supernatural being in existence,’” Stiles agreed with a small sigh. “But as far as I know, even the rarest of the rares has more than one. Being a Spark isn’t fair to anyone, least of all the Spark themselves. Maybe even less for the Hales. They’ve done enough. They’ve protected me and mine for centuries. I think it’s only fair to set them free.” 

“You seem very good at freeing people,” Deaton acquiesced with a small smile. “I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you.” 

Stiles laughed slightly, uncrossing his arms and rubbing the back of his head with his free hand before sighing. “Well, here’s to hoping that things change over the next few years. I’d like for people to be able to live in freedom and peace, no matter how rare they are.” 

“If you work at it, I have no doubt you’ll succeed,” Deaton said, inclining his head slightly before turning to head back the way he’d come. “After all, you’ve succeeded at everything else.” 

“Not yet,” Stiles insisted quietly, eyes on Derek. 

He was laughing at something Rose had just said to Erica, who looked red-faced and furious and was trying to pick a fight with a nine-year old. 

Hearing him laugh felt so good, but Stiles couldn’t help the ache in his chest when he was again reminded that that was the most he’d ever heard come out of Derek’s mouth. 

“You’ll succeed at that too, I’m sure,” he heard Deaton say softly from behind him. 

Stiles frowned and turned, watching the Druid’s back while he walked away.

As much as he wished that were true, Stiles honestly wasn’t so sure. 

* * *

“You like wolves, right?”

Stiles paused in sipping his Coke, cocking an eyebrow at Diana while she poked at Jackson in annoyance because he was encroaching on her personal space. 

Jackson ignored her, like an asshole. If he wasn’t careful, Diana was going to freeze his pants to the booth or something. 

Actually, their first _real_ meeting had been somewhat comical. She hadn’t been informed before she left with the agents that Jackson wasn’t actually the cursed Alpha Derek Hale, so when she’d shown up at Beacon Hills with the others who’d been provided accommodations in the town, she’d been so startled at Jackson’s loud cursing that she’d accidentally frozen a nearby fountain. 

She’d been embarrassed, but Stiles had thought it was cute. He’d had to explain the whole story to her so that she now knew Jackson was actually _Jackson_ , and the big lovable marshmallow beside him was Derek.

It’d taken her a while to get the names straight, since she’d been calling Jackson ‘Derek’ for two weeks, but she mostly had it down by now. 

“I mean, I like them well enough,” Stiles informed her, putting his Coke down. “But I wouldn’t say they’re my favourite.” 

Derek turned an offended look his way. 

“Except for you, you’re my favourite, promise,” Stiles insisted, patting his arm lightly and smirking. Derek didn’t seem convinced, but before Stiles could say anything else, Diana had her hand held out to him. 

“Here!” 

Stiles stared at her outstretched hand, then slowly reached out to take the small wolf figurine she’d made with her powers. Her ice magic was really impressive, and every time he saw her, she made him a different little ice statue. He loved them all, and he actually kept them, though he didn’t tell her that.

Their freezer was getting full, Stiles needed to figure out a way to keep them without melting. He wondered if there was a spell he could use to turn them from ice to glass, then he could just set up a bookshelf and lay them out on there. 

“Why would you give this to me _now_?” he whined, staring at the cute little wolf. It was in the process of howling at an invisible moon. “It’s _summer_ , and we’re still eating, it’ll melt!” 

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t until we leave,” she promised, setting her hand down by his plate. When she pulled it away, a part of the table was covered in ice and he carefully set it down on its little frozen pedestal. 

“Thanks,” he said with a smile, Derek’s hand finding his back and rubbing up and down his spine. He felt like Derek always did that to remind himself that Stiles was right beside him, not that he minded one bit, he never got tired of Derek being close. “You know you don’t have to do that for me all the time, right?” 

“I want to,” she insisted with a kind smile. “You’re the reason I’m here. And you’re gonna have to get used to it, because I’m sure everyone you’ve ever saved is going to remind you of that fact for the rest of their lives.” 

“What about me?” Jackson demanded, affronted. “I was there too! I almost _died_ , you know!” 

“You’re an asshole, you get nothing,” she said coldly, Stiles bursting into laughter at Jackson’s outraged expression. 

Diana just held her hand out with an annoyed eye roll, and Jackson’s face shifted into something a bit less angry and a bit more cocky when he snatched the hand raising its middle finger from her palm. 

“Sweet. Stilinski, put this with your wolf.” 

“No, I’m not putting a ‘fuck you’ with my wolf,” Stiles insisted, trying to protect his little ice sculpture with both hands. “My wolf is _sacred_!” 

“Stop being a dick, put it with your wolf before it melts!” 

“I said no!” 

“How can you _stand_ these children?” Diana asked Derek with a sigh while Jackson tried to get his own ice sculpture around Stiles’ hands without breaking either of their gifts. 

Derek just shrugged, but Stiles knew he was secretly saying, “Lots of exposure.” 

“And patience,” Stiles insisted, finally conceding defeat and allowing Jackson to put his sculpture down beside his wolf. He leaned over to kiss Derek’s cheek, his beard tickling his lips. 

“How can you stand to kiss him?” Jackson asked with a scowl. “His beard’s a mess, he looks like a lumberjack.” 

“A sexy lumberjack,” Stiles insisted with a grin. “You’re just jealous you can’t grow a beard, baby-face.” 

“Wha—I could grow a beard if I wanted to!” he shot back angrily. 

Stiles just laughed and started teasing him about not being able to grow a beard, even as people started turning to look at them because they were being loud and stupid. Diana sighed and tried to sink lower in her seat. Derek was used to it, so he just smirked while sipping at his coffee, free hand still rubbing at Stiles’ back. 

It was nice to be able to just sit and banter with Jackson for a bit. Things had been so busy and hectic the past few weeks that nobody had really gotten much of a break. Even now, the only reason they were sitting in the diner having lunch instead of back at the Preserve helping with the houses was because Derek and Stiles were supposed to have a meeting with the school principal.

He’d double-booked them with someone else, and had been about to cancel on the other meeting when Stiles insisted they could come back. He asked if they could wait an hour and then he’d be free, so they’d figured rather than go back to the Preserve, help for half an hour, and then have to leave again, they could just take a much deserved break and have some lunch at the diner. 

Diana had already been there getting ready to order, and Jackson had texted Stiles to ask when he was expected back from the meeting, and shown up at the diner when Stiles told him it had been postponed and he and Derek were grabbing food. 

A happy accident, but they’d all been working hard, so it was a nice break. Diana tended to head out to the Preserve every now and then, but her powers didn’t help much in the building of houses and she wasn’t very strong. She usually just showed up on the hotter days so she could use her ice powers to provide some relief, but she had to be careful because the heat affected her, too. 

Still, Stiles liked that she couldn’t help in the conventional sense, and showed up to do what she could anyway. It was nice. 

His new and improved pack was amazing. 

“So why are you going to see the principal, anyway?” Diana asked, popping a fry in her mouth and chewing while staring at Stiles. 

“A lot of the people we picked up were taken when they were still minors,” Stiles said. He didn’t add, “You included,” but he knew she figured that out for herself. “A lot of them didn’t have the chance to finish school. We just wanted to see what options were available so that everyone could get an education. Maybe have one class for all the students who are starting from the bottom, you know? It would be a bit overwhelming to stick them right in school with teenagers, but if we can get a kind of separate class where they can all be together and help each other out, I think it’ll be less scary since nobody wants to feel stupid for something outside their control.” 

Diana’s smile was bright, and grateful. “That’s really amazing of you. Thank you for thinking of that, I’m sure you’ll make a lot of people happy.”

She didn’t say, “Me included,” but she didn’t have to. Stiles knew she was thinking it. 

“Yeah, we just want to help people.” He rocked into Derek lightly, turning to smile at him when the Werewolf cocked an eyebrow at him. “That’s what we do, right Alpha?” 

Derek rolled his eyes, and poked at Stiles’ forehead to insist it was what _he_ did. Stiles disagreed, but that was a fight he’d have with him later. 

“Well, I’m glad I met you, Stiles.” Diana smiled at him. “You’re an amazing person.” 

“Yeah,” Jackson agreed quietly, like he was hoping nobody had heard him. 

“Agreed,” Derek’s kiss to his temple said. 

Stiles just smiled, because he didn’t think he would’ve been anything at all if not for the people in his life. 

He really, _really_ cared for all the people he’d met, and he adored his giant found family. 

And he loved Derek. 

He _loved_ Derek. 

* * *

Summer was in full swing when Peter had another original pack event. He allowed Diana to come as an exception, but wasn’t happy about it. Stiles knew he was worried that inviting her meant eventually they’d start inviting everyone, but that wasn’t the case.

They were all close with their new packmates, but there were just some people they were closer with than others. Like Jackson. Like Alex and Rose. Like the twins. 

Like Diana. 

Stiles honestly didn’t know that he and Jackson would’ve stayed sane in Schrader’s house without her. Well, mostly Stiles. Jackson was almost always in too much pain to really focus on anything, but having no one to talk to about how worried he was hadn’t been easy on Stiles. Diana had really helped keep him sane, and the more time he spent with her, the more he loved her. 

Honestly, he was looking forward to having her around for Christmas, because she could make it snow on command, and she promised to freeze the lake in the Preserve so that they could all go ice skating somewhere free. It didn’t usually get cold enough to freeze the large lake to a degree that made it safe to skate on, but Diana assured them she could definitely change that. 

That meant Stiles would finally get to watch Rose help Derek ice skate, and he couldn’t _wait_. 

It was weird to realize this was his life, now. Stiles honestly couldn’t say he was upset about it, not by a long shot, but it was crazy to realize that this was his life. He was a Spark, an all-powerful magical being, and he’d managed to save and protect so many rare Supernaturals that he’d lost count. 

Their pack was massive, and full of people who could do things few others on the planet could, and they were so protected that only a suicidal idiot would come after them. 

Gerard was gone. Kate was gone. Jennifer was gone. Deucalion was gone. Everyone who’d ever tried to hurt him or control him was gone. Hunters heard about the Hale pack and were afraid. People spoke of the Spark in hushed tones, never suggesting coming after him, and only whispering their fear or praise. He didn’t _want_ to be someone people feared, but it was better for people to be afraid of him and leave him and his alone, than for them to think he was a pushover and learn the hard way that he wasn’t. 

He had a pack. He had a life. He was going to university in the fall. 

He had Derek.

He had _Derek_! That was really the most important thing. Since the beginning, ever since this whole thing had started, Derek had been there.

His protector.

His friend.

His boyfriend.

His fucking _everything_. 

Everything had changed, and yet nothing at all had. Stiles didn’t even know how to voice how he felt about his life as it was now. He loved it, and he hated it. He missed his dad, so much. Every day. But he also knew he never would’ve met Derek. Never would’ve known him like he did now. He hated that his father had died, but the only solace he had was that losing his dad meant gaining Derek. 

And the pack. And the Order. And Satomi’s pack. He had friends, and family—blood was inconsequential, they _were_ family—and he was in a good place. Sure, he still had a lot to atone for, but he had years ahead of him to make up for the people who’d died for him and the things he’d done while with the Argents. He was never going to let himself forget the wrongs he’d committed. He would work at correcting them every day for the rest of his life however he could. 

“Derek!” 

Stiles watched Rose tear across the Hale house and launch herself at the Alpha Werewolf. He bent down to catch her, lifting her up into his arms with an easy smile while she clung to him tightly. 

“No, you can’t go! You just got here!” 

“We’ve been here for five hours,” Stiles insisted with a small laugh, tugging lightly at Rose’s ponytail. She turned to pout at him, still hugging Derek’s neck, and Stiles felt like he might have to watch out because Rose seemed to have a crush on his boyfriend. 

“Derek and Stiles need to leave,” Alex said, moving up to them and smiling at Stiles, rubbing gently at the young girl’s back. “We should all be leaving, it is _way_ past your bedtime.” 

“No,” Rose whined, still clinging to Derek. 

“I know, my love,” Alex said softly, brushing some of Rose’s hair off her forehead, the little girl turning her face away from her mother—her literal _mother_ , since the adoption had gone through, and Stiles was _still_ fucking thrilled every time he thought about it. “But Derek and Stiles are very important people, and they have very important things to do tomorrow.” 

Things Stiles wasn’t looking forward to. 

Namely a meeting with the mayor. Being Emissary meant Stiles was Derek’s voice in all things political. It kind of sucked, because he put his foot in his mouth a lot, but well, this was his life. 

Besides, even if he _wasn’t_ there to talk, he’d have gone with Derek anyway. They were kind of inseparable, Peter insisted he was going to kidnap Stiles one day so they spent twenty-four hours apart. 

“We’ll come visit you and spend the whole day,” Stiles promised. “Saturday, okay?” 

“Promise?” Rose asked pathetically. 

“Promise.” He poked her nose. “You can even hoard Derek all to yourself, I’m getting tired of him anyway.” He winked, and ignored the fake-affronted expression he got in response from his boyfriend. 

Rose managed a small smile, and when Alex pulled her out of Derek’s arms, she actually allowed it. Stiles waved to the room at large, a few people calling back farewells as they headed out the door. 

The air was getting hotter and hotter as they reached the peak of summer and Stiles was honestly a little disappointed about the fact that it _was_ summer. He was looking forward to fall and cold weather coming back in a few months, which was something he _never_ thought he’d say. He used to hate winter, but now, it was probably his favourite time of year. He liked cuddling with Derek, but it got a little uncomfortable in the summer when it was hot and sticky. Winter was the best time for cuddling, when he could leech body heat from the Werewolf while buried under a mound of blankets. 

They climbed into the Mustang to head back to the loft, the drive conducted in comfortable silence. Stiles really liked how _comfortable_ everything was with Derek. How comfortable it had always been. They really were made for each other. 

He hoped his dad knew how good Stiles was doing. He hoped he was happy that Derek ended up being everything he needed. 

Considering his lack of ability to speak, Stiles didn’t know much about Derek and his father’s relationship, but he knew enough to know they’d been close. Maybe not as close as his father and Laura had been, considering she’d been around longer, but he liked to think his dad saw Derek as a second son. Or a really quiet nephew. 

Stiles laughed to himself at the thought, earning him an eyebrow raise, but he just winked and didn’t explain. Some things were best left unsaid. 

When they got back to the loft, Stiles commandeered the bathroom first, because Derek was slow and that was his own fault. He cleaned off quickly, not wanting to dawdle since they had an early morning and it was already quarter-to-midnight, then switched out with Derek once he was done. 

Stiles was already buried under the covers by the time the light downstairs turned off and when Derek climbed into bed beside him, Stiles rolled into him immediately, sighing contentedly when he was wrapped in the man’s arms. Derek squeezed him once tightly, then loosened his hold. It was something he’d been doing for a while, and even though it _still hurt_ —super-strength, Derek!—Stiles allowed it every single night. 

“Night,” he mumbled into Derek’s chest, rubbing his cheek against his skin and getting comfortable. 

Derek grunted his own, “Goodnight” before the two of them settled. It occurred to Stiles he’d forgotten to check he’d set the alarm, but he knew Derek had. He’d seen him do it, so even if both didn’t go off, he knew at least one of them would. He wondered what time it was, and how tired they were going to be, but figured it couldn’t have been any later than twelve-thirty. He hadn’t taken long in the shower, and neither had Derek, so he was sure it wasn’t one yet, which at least meant seven hours, at minimum. 

He could feel Derek’s lips against the crown of his head, the Werewolf’s lips moving against his skin. One large hand was rubbing gently up and down Stiles’ back in a calm, soothing pattern, and it was slowly but surely lulling Stiles to sleep. 

Stiles was pretty sure Derek did that on purpose, because he knew it helped Stiles pass out faster. It was one of those oddly considerate things Derek always did for him, and he loved it. He felt like Derek might be passing out faster for once though, because his hand was moving more slowly as the seconds passed. 

It made sense, it had been a long day with the pack, he was probably exhausted.

Derek and people still didn’t really mix, it was a wonder he'd survived with Stiles for so long. 

“I love you.” 

Stiles smiled, nuzzling further into Derek’s chest. “I love you too, big guy.” 

The hand on his back had stilled, Stiles figuring that Derek had finally fallen asleep. That was good, they were going to be busy tomorrow, and Derek was already exhausted enough withou—

Wait. 

Stiles frowned, wondering if he was already asleep. But he didn’t _feel_ asleep. His eyes were burning slightly, that feeling he got whenever he was overtired and on his way to passing out, but not quite there yet. 

But he’d definitely heard something. Had someone broken in or something?

Or had he passed out and then woken back up a split second later?

Shifting, Stiles pulled away from Derek so he could sit up, glancing briefly around the dark room once before looking down at Derek. The Werewolf was staring back at him, his face slack with shock, and Stiles frowned. 

“Did you hear that?” 

Derek said nothing, as usual. He just kept staring at Stiles. 

“So weird,” Stiles insisted, moving to lie back down. “I swear, for a second I thought—”

“Stiles.” 

He froze, staring at Derek incredulously. Because those were _definitely_ Derek’s lips moving in a way that matched his name. And that was _definitely_ a voice he’d never heard before. And it had _definitely_ come from Derek. 

Stiles sat back up, staring down at Derek, heart beginning to beat faster, and faster, _and faster_ in his chest. 

“Derek?” There was no way.

It was literally impossible. There was _no way_! Because Kate’s spell was absolute. Satomi had said so herself. Nobody could undo the curse, and the only way for Derek to break it himself was to mean it when he said ‘I love you.’ 

Stiles’ brain screeched to a halt.

Because Satomi’s explanation had never specifically referenced Derek had to say it to _Kate_. Just that Derek had to say the words and _mean_ them. 

“Stiles,” Derek said again, sitting up and staring at him incredulously. 

“Oh my God!” Stiles blurted out. 

Derek grabbed his face with both hands before he could say anything else, kissing him so hard it actually almost hurt. Stiles pushed at his chest roughly, trying to get him off, then started hitting him until Derek pulled away. 

“Oh my _God_! Why are you _kissing_ me?! Stop kissing me! Oh my God, you can _talk_! Keep talking! Say something! Fucking _anything_!” He shoved roughly at Derek to get free from his death grip, rolling over to grab his phone even while Derek practically rolled on top of him and kissed at any available skin he could reach. 

“Would you _stop_ kissing me! You’ve been kissing me for months, use that mouth for something else!” Stiles shouted, opening a random document on Google and thrusting his phone at Derek. “Read this! Read this entire thing out loud right now!” 

“God, you drive me _crazy_ ,” Derek insisted, grabbing the phone and tossing it away before reaching for Stiles’ face again and kissing him. Stiles was pinned too effectively to fight back, but he still tried his best to break free because Derek could _talk_! He could talk, and instead of _talking_ he was fucking _kissing_ him!

Stiles didn’t _want_ him to kiss him right now! He wanted to hear him talk himself hoarse. He wanted to hear every single fucking word in the English language come out of Derek’s mouth _right now_! 

“I love you so much,” Derek said between kisses, biting along Stiles’ jaw to his ear and back down to his chin. “Fuck, Stiles, you have no idea how much I love you. How much you mean to me. How badly I needed you to know.” 

“Oh my God,” Stiles insisted again, because he was pretty sure he’d lost the ability to articulate coherent sentences. He just wrapped his arms around Derek while the other kept kissing at any available skin and held him for dear life. He could see his hands glowing behind his closed lids, but he couldn’t pull the magic back.

Because Derek could _talk_! The curse was broken and Derek could fucking _speak_! 

“I should’ve said it sooner,” Derek insisted, mouthing open kisses against Stiles’ neck. He idly realized he’d probably have hickeys for their meeting with the mayor—thank you _very much_ , Derek Hale!—but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I’ve wanted to, but it hurt not being able to say it aloud. I needed you to know, I’ve _wanted_ you to know. Fuck, Stiles, you’re _everything_.” 

“Seriously, can you like, recite your favourite book or something?” Stiles asked, feeling breathless and still clutching Derek like he never wanted to let him go. “I swear to God, I need you to never stop talking. I need to hear your voice forever.” 

Derek laughed, and it was so different from the other laughs Stiles had ever heard from him. It was rich, and warm, and so full of happiness, and Stiles could _not_ handle it! 

He couldn’t handle any of this, because Derek’s voice was everything he’d always imagined it would be, only better. It was so fucking _deep_ , and smooth, and God damn _sinful_. And the crazy thing was, it didn’t even sound hoarse. It didn’t sound like the voice of someone who hadn’t spoken in years. It sounded exactly the same as Stiles’, like they’d been having a conversation before bed, and had continued it after lying down. 

It was like Derek had still been speaking all those years. Like whenever he moved his lips, words actually _did_ come out, but nobody could hear them. 

“God, can you like, nod your head? Seriously, can you please just nod right now?” 

Derek laughed against his neck, but he obliged, and Stiles seriously thought he was going to fucking break down into uncontrollable sobs when he felt him nod. 

He had no idea what to do with himself right now. He just wanted to lie there holding Derek and continue to demand he speak, but Derek seemed more interested in kissing him and insisting he loved him. Stiles didn’t mind that, exactly, he just really wanted to keep hearing Derek talk. 

He wanted them to have all the conversations they’d ever had all over again. Wanted to know _everything_ about Derek. The good, the bad, the ugly, he didn’t care. He wanted to know what he did that annoyed the shit out of him, wanted to know what his favourite food was, wanted to know his favourite colour, and his friendship with Jackson, and how he felt being Alpha, and what he thought of the new pack, and what his thoughts on climate change were. He didn’t know, he didn’t care, he just needed Derek to keep talking so he could learn _everything_ about him. 

“Up,” Stiles ordered, smacking at Derek. “Up, get up. We are making coffee right now, and you are going to talk until I tell you to stop.” 

Derek laughed against his neck, kissing it once more, and Stiles smacked him again. 

“Would you _stop_ kissing me?! You can kiss me whenever you want! I’ve been waiting literal _years_ to hear your voice! Get up, we’re having an honest to God conversation _right now_! With actual words and sentences as opposed to eyebrows!” 

Another laugh escaped Derek and while he tightened his hold on Stiles, he did eventually loosen his grip and shift back so that he could climb out of bed. Stiles followed after him, smacking him and telling him to keep talking. 

Derek took his hand in his, kissing the back of it, and then started telling Stiles that they should look into doing something with the bottom half of the building, because as much as he knew Stiles loved his train car, he really wanted it to be something useful and functional. 

By the time they’d reached the kitchen, he’d already moved on to talking about classes he wanted to take, because Derek had had things he wanted to do in life that he hadn’t been able to pursue because of the curse. Stiles was starting university in the fall, and Derek thought maybe he could try and get into a community college so he could join him next year. 

When they reached the sofa with their coffees, Derek had moved into how sorry he was about Stiles’ father, and how bad he felt for how their first few months together had gone, and how badly he’d wished he could explain everything that was going on. 

Hearing Derek move into how frustrating the past few years were hurt Stiles more than anything. He wasn’t a quiet person by nature, and more than once he wanted to jump in, but he forced himself not to. Because Derek had been forced into silence for a long, _long_ time, and now that he had his voice back, Stiles wasn’t going to take even one _second_ away from him using it. 

So he sat there sipping his coffee, watching Derek while he spoke, listening to every word out of his mouth, savouring every single sentence, and tried not to start crying. 

Because after knowing him for three years, after living with him for well over two years, after dating him for more than one, Stiles had _finally_ met Derek Hale. 

And he didn’t want to miss a second of this introduction. 

* * *

Stiles cancelled the meeting with the mayor. He and Derek hadn’t gotten _any_ sleep last night, for obvious reasons, and while Stiles knew they could still go and probably fumble their way through a conversation with him, that wouldn’t be a good idea.

The entire purpose of the meeting was to request more funding for the youth centre in town that they were trying to re-purpose into a Supernatural rescue facility. The youth centre hadn’t been used in years, and even though it had been shut down and was slated for demolition, that had never happened. 

There were a lot of people in need of help, and a lot of new Supernaturals in town in need of jobs. It would be good publicity for the town, and it would be for a good cause. Stiles didn’t want to half-ass a conversation like that due to lack of sleep. 

Besides, he really didn’t think it would be right, or fair, for the second person in town to learn about Derek’s voice coming back to be the mayor. His family deserved to know first. 

Peter had been looking for a way to break the spell long before Stiles even knew Derek existed. And Cora had been devastated when she’d found out about what had happened to her brother. If anyone deserved to know about this first, it was them. 

Once they’d both downed some more coffee, they headed upstairs to change, Stiles having to bat impatiently at Derek every few seconds because the Werewolf could literally _not_ control himself! He kept leaning over to kiss him, or hug him, or basically be supremely fucking clingy, and it wasn’t that Stiles minded, because he loved him, but he really needed him to stop using his mouth for anything _other_ than talking. 

“Will you _stop_ kissing me?!” Stiles demanded after tying his shoes, shoving one hand into Derek’s face to push him back. “I mean it. Stop it.” 

Derek was smirking behind Stiles’ hand. He was pretty sure he’d never seen Derek smile so much in his life, not since the day Stiles admitted he was in love with him. He was pretty sure the smile was permanently glued to Derek’s face now.

It wasn’t a bad look for him, honestly. Stiles loved his smile. He was fucking adorable. 

“I can’t talk forever,” Derek informed him, kissing at Stiles’ palm and forcing him to retreat it. 

“You can,” Stiles said authoritatively, pointing a finger at him, “and you will. I demand it.” 

He stood up and led the way down the stairs from the bedroom, Derek letting out a bark of laughter behind him while he followed, catching up to him in the loft and wrapping his arms around him from behind, making it infinitely difficult for Stiles to move purposefully towards the door. 

“Oh, you _demand_ it?” he asked, voice teasing while he bit at Stiles’ closest ear. “Pretty sure _I’m_ the Alpha here.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, trying not to let the continuous affection get to him and following through with opening the loft door, “but _I_ wear the pants in this relationship.”

Derek laughed again while Stiles walked them both out and shut the loft door. Derek refused to release him, which meant Stiles had to shuffle them around so he could lock up, and then head down the stairs with Derek still attached to him.

It was a lot harder than it sounded, his only saving grace was that if he tripped, Derek would most assuredly catch him. 

“Do you now?” Derek asked teasingly, blowing in his ear. 

Stiles managed to suppress a shudder, but it was a near thing. He could feel Derek grinning against his skin, likely because of the spike of arousal that shot straight to Stiles’ groin.

Fucking Werewolves. 

“Yes. I do.” 

Derek’s hands had wandered lower by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, and before Stiles could start working on unlocking all the locks on their exit door, the tips of Derek’s fingers had dipped beneath the hem of his pants. Not far enough to short-circuit his brain, but enough to make him pause. 

“Pretty sure I can take those pants off you,” he said hotly into his ear. 

Christ, apparently having his voice back was making Derek horny as _shit_. Stiles figured it was more that he was happy he could express himself, but still. Good fucking _Lord_ , he was in trouble. 

“Shut up, keep talking,” he snapped breathlessly, managing to unlock the door and pulling it open. 

“Which is it?” Derek asked, still using that God damn fucking voice. Stiles was pretty sure that wasn’t his normal voice, he’d been hearing that for the past few hours. This was Derek’s bedroom voice and was _entirely_ unfair! “Shut up, or keep talking? You’re sending me mixed signals.” 

“Oh my God,” Stiles groaned, grabbing at the door jamb to keep himself standing when Derek started biting at his ear again. “I hate you. So much.”

“Mm, liar.” 

“Stop trying to distract me!” Stiles insisted, lightly elbowing at him so he could get some breathing room before he popped a boner right there. He was already halfway there, he really didn’t want to show up at the Hale house smelling like arousal. 

Peter didn’t like eau de terror in his coffee, Stiles was sure he would _hate_ eau de sex. 

“Maybe I’m not done talking to you yet,” Derek insisted, though he did finally release him so they could exit the building like normal people and not sex-crazy psychopaths.

Which was hilarious, considering they still hadn’t had sex. But _man_ was Derek sending strong signals on that front. 

Stiles ordered Derek to go to the car while he locked up, the Werewolf obeying but with a pleased smirk on his face. God, smug Derek was the fucking _worst_. 

He fucking _loved_ it. 

Once they were both in the car, Stiles was a little relieved that Derek was driving, because it meant he had to keep his hands to himself. Thankfully, he seemed to have some pity for Stiles and his poor, sleep-deprived brain, because he stopped using that low, sultry bedroom voice and went back to his normal one—honestly, the shift wasn’t too different, Stiles still found it hot as shit, but that was probably because it was _Derek’s_ voice. 

They went back to talking about their time with Ennis, because the two of them had spent virtually the entire night talking about all the months they’d been together, and Derek being able to finally voice his thoughts and opinions. Evidently he didn’t remember _all_ of them, but he at least had a general idea of what he’d been thinking at any given time. 

Stiles wasn’t looking forward to when they hit Harris, because Derek would be able to yell at him. Honestly, he’d take it. He didn’t care if he got yelled at, Derek _could_ yell, and that was the important thing. 

He also knew that they would have to talk about unpleasant things eventually. What Kate had done to Derek had changed the kind of person he was, and the curse had made it impossible for him to talk about it and find some closure. Stiles really needed him to open up about what had happened, even if it wasn’t with him. 

And Stiles needed to make sure he knew Derek’s boundaries, because he sure as shit didn’t want to accidentally trample all over them. 

When they reached the Hale house, Derek looked a little unsure as he parked the car. It was like he thought things had changed too much and that him having his voice back would only change things again in a way where they could never be the same again. Stiles understood his hesitance, but at the same time, Derek had really never been good at seeing how much people cared about him. 

It was probably another residual of Kate that Stiles was sure everyone was quickly going to erase. 

“I don’t even know what to say,” Derek said quietly, his voice low, like he didn’t want anyone inside to hear him. Stiles was sure they weren’t listening anyway, it was still early, they were probably annoyed at being woken up by the car arriving. 

“Take your time,” Stiles insisted with a small smile. “You don’t have to say anything right away. I can ask you a question if you’d rather do that.” 

Derek smiled slightly, turning to nod at him, and Stiles was so fucking _thrilled_ at seeing his head bob like that, because _fuck_ , he’d never seen it before. 

“Sure. Thanks.” 

Stiles was the one to lean over and kiss him this time, but when Derek brought one hand up to keep him there, he retreated quickly. He wasn’t going to let Derek procrastinate this longer than he had to, and he really didn’t want to keep kissing when he’d rather hear his voice. 

When they reached the door, climbing the porch steps slowly due to their fatigue, Peter had already opened it and was eying them both critically. 

“I think everyone knows he belongs to you, nephew, no need to advertise it every time you leave the house.” 

“I’ve tried to make him stop, it doesn’t work.” Stiles hadn’t really taken a look at himself this morning, but he was kind of used to the smattering of hickeys that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on his neck. 

“Mm,” Peter said, unimpressed. He gave them both another brief once-over, like he could tell they hadn’t slept. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, feel like it, too.” Stiles walked past him, patting him on the shoulder. Derek followed without a word.

Peter didn’t notice a difference, which made sense, since Derek hadn’t spoken a word in years. He just shut the door behind them and followed them to the kitchen where Cora was standing grumpily at the stove making eggs. 

“What happened with your meeting?” Peter asked. 

“We had to cancel. Something came up. His secretary sounded kind of relieved, actually. I think the mayor’s office is scared of us.” 

“With that haircut, I’d be terrified of you, too,” Peter informed Stiles.

He let out an affronted sound, then flipped Peter off while the man headed for the stove to take over for Cora. She’d already dumped some scrambled eggs onto two plates, and Peter got to work cracking some more into the pan. They might not have been prepared for visitors, but this was a house of Werewolves. They were always prepared to overfeed, regardless of whether or not people dropped in.

“Jackson not home?” Stiles asked while he leaned forward on the counter. Derek took a seat at the kitchen table behind him, still not saying a word. 

“He spent the night with Ethan,” Cora said, smothering one plate of eggs with ketchup. “Aiden’s been bugging us to give the two of them their own house so he doesn’t have to listen to them be gross together. Peter’s already veto’d Ethan spending the night here, so they’re probably going to jump on the chance to move in together, or whatever.” 

“I have heard enough of my children have sex in this house, I’m not keen to add another,” Peter argued from the stove, turning to give Cora a pointed look. 

She just shrugged and Stiles smirked, both because he knew that included Derek, _and_ because Peter had called Cora, Derek _and_ Jackson his children. 

Cora picked up the two plates and turned to them. “Eggs? I think we have some frozen waffles left if you’d rather that.” 

“I’m good with eggs,” Stiles said with a shrug, then turned to Derek, smiling a little as he asked, “You okay with eggs?” 

“Sure.” 

Stiles heard the plates break before he’d fully turned back to Cora. Her hands were empty, broken porcelain, eggs and ketchup scattered across the floor of the kitchen. She was staring at Derek with her eyes so wide Stiles worried they might fall right out of her face.

Peter had paused at the stove, also turned to look at his nephew, and Stiles could see the eggs beginning to smoke a little bit. 

It made sense they’d recognize the voice. Stiles had never heard Derek speak before, he literally had no idea what he sounded like, so his confusion had made sense. For Peter and Cora, this was their family. This was someone they knew extremely well. So the one word was more than enough for both of them. 

When Stiles turned back to Derek, he shifted a little uncomfortably, clearly unsure of how to take that reaction. Stiles wanted to smack him, because it was clear this was a _good_ reaction. 

“Derek?” Cora asked, and Stiles saw her lower lip trembling. Saw her eyes water. Could see how close she was to breaking. “Can you...?” 

Derek managed a small smile. “Hey Cora.” 

Stiles ducked in time to avoid getting bowled over, because Cora leapt clear over the counter, landed on the table, and literally tackled Derek right out of his chair. They were on the ground in half a second, Cora sobbing into his shirt while hugging him. Derek hugged her back, though Stiles _did_ notice him wince, like the fall had hurt. Made sense, nobody wanted to get tackled out of their chair, that sounded unpleasant.

He didn’t blame Cora though, not one bit. 

Peter seemed to have snapped out of his shock, because he came around the counter then while Cora was still hugging Derek and crying, and insisting she’d never been so happy to hear his dumb, stupid voice in her life. Stiles was still crouched on the other side of the counter, but he smiled at how happy he could tell the siblings were. 

Derek wasn’t crying, but his eyes were definitely a little wet. Stiles honestly wondered if he was one of those, “I had something in my eye” kind of people, or if he’d admit this entire thing was kind of overwhelming. 

It didn’t look like Cora was willing to let him go any time soon, but Peter managed to convince her to get up so the two of them weren’t just lying on the ground like morons. He helped Derek to his feet, then pulled him into a brief hug, one hand at the back of his nephew’s neck, the other around his shoulders and giving him a hard pat on the back. 

“Good to have you back, Derek.” 

“Thanks Peter.” Derek was smiling so wide Stiles was honestly worried he’d forget how to scowl.

Not that he wanted him to scowl, he liked his smile. He was just also kind of adorable when he scowled. 

“How?” Cora demanded, grabbing his face and giving it a firm shake. “Derek, _how_?” 

“How else?” His smile was softer now, and his gaze shifted to Stiles, who was still sitting on the floor on the other side of the island. 

Peter and Cora turned to look at him, and he held up both hands in surrender. 

“I did nothing. I was literally lying in bed falling asleep when he spoke.” 

“It’s because of you, and you know it is,” Derek argued, still smiling softly. “Kate cursed me to say the words ‘I love you’ and mean them. There isn’t anyone else in the world I could’ve meant those words more with.” 

Stiles felt heat sliding up his throat, embarrassment threatening to swallow him whole. He almost wanted to joke that he liked Derek better before he could talk, but the words wouldn’t come, because even as a joke, they weren’t true. He didn’t care how embarrassed he got by the sappy shit coming out of Derek’s mouth, he wanted to hear every fucking word, because he could _talk_. 

Fuck, Derek could _talk_. Stiles was never going to get over that. 

“Cora, get dressed, we’re going to the store,” Peter informed her while stalking back around the counter. Stiles finally stood up, eyes shifting back and forth between the two Hale siblings and their uncle. 

“What?” she asked, wiping at the tears on her face, even as more spilled over her lashes and across her cheeks. “Why?” 

“We need food,” Peter said, moving to the stove quickly. Stiles noticed he hadn’t moved the eggs off the burner, which seemed irresponsible of him, but just reinforced how shocked and _thrilled_ Peter was. He turned the stove off, leaving the half-burned eggs in the pan on another burner, then moved purposefully to the fridge and pulled it open, as if inspecting what they had. “We are having a pack day, it’s mandatory. No school, no work, nothing. Our pack is coming over immediately and we are going to listen to Derek talk the entire day.” 

“I just got my voice back, you want me to lose it already?” Derek asked with a small laugh.

Peter’s smile was small but fierce while he kept doing inventory of what they had in the fridge. “We’ll let you stop talking when we’ve heard enough.” 

“Maybe we should make it the original pack?” Stiles asked cautiously. “I mean, I know this is huge, but I feel like we should only invite the old pack for something like this.” Honestly, even Jackson was too close to the ‘new’ pack to warrant an invite, but he was an exception. He’d known Derek for over a year, and they’d gotten extremely close while Stiles had been with the Argents, so it wouldn’t be fair to him to keep him back. 

Stiles felt guilty wanting to exclude newer people, like Alex and Rose, but there were so many people who’d grown up with Derek who’d been _waiting_ for this day for literal _years_ , and it didn’t seem right to take that away from them. 

“Stiles, you start making phone calls. Anyone who says they can’t make it, you tell them this isn’t optional and that they come, or I will hunt them down. Get Parrish to bring beer, lots of it. Cora and I will handle the groceries. You,” Peter said, straightening and closing the fridge door before pointing at Derek, “you keep talking like your life depends on it.” 

“You’re almost as bad as Stiles,” Derek said with a laugh, but it was obvious he was just as happy as the others were. He was acting like having his voice back wasn’t a big deal, but they all knew it was. To them _and_ to him. 

Derek just seemed like he didn’t know how to express how happy he was, so he was making jokes at his own expense. 

“Stiles, I don’t see you calling people.” 

“Right.” He hastily pulled his phone out. “I’ll get on that.”

“Cora, clothes. Now.” 

She kissed her brother’s cheek, a loud and wet kiss. He let out a disgusted sounding, “Cora!” and the sob-laugh that escaped her followed by the endearing smile on Derek’s face suggested that this was something they’d often done as children, and Cora was ecstatic that she could hear him say that again. 

It warmed his heart to see them all, from Cora’s happy tears, to Peter’s more reserved but fiercely thrilled smile, to Derek’s overjoyed expression. 

He couldn’t wait for the rest of the pack to find out. For the rest of Derek’s _family_ to find out. 

This was going to be the longest day ever, but Stiles knew every single second would be worth it. 

* * *

“I wanted to kill him,” Derek said with a laugh, one arm resting across the back of Stiles’ seat and shaking his head while he spoke. “I honestly wanted to kill him. All that time keeping him out of sight, and the second we get back he goes to open the door.” 

“I did _not_ open the door,” Stiles argued, rolling his eyes and slouching in his seat. “I specifically _didn’t_ open the door. And besides, it was only Parrish.” 

“You didn’t know Parrish at the time,” Derek argued, leaning over to kiss his temple. Stiles could feel the smile on his lips when he kissed him. “I thought you were going to be the death of me with the number of heart attacks you gave me.” 

“And now your heart does different things whenever he’s around,” Erica teased with a grin. 

“Ugh, unfortunately,” Cora muttered. “They’re so gross. And you should _hear_ the schmoopy things Derek says to him now, it’s fucking _embarrassing_!” 

“Like what?” Erica asked with a cocked eyebrow, even as Derek started speaking over her to oblige, if only to make Cora suffer. 

“You are the light of my life.” Derek kissed Stiles’ temple. Then his cheek. “My everything. My world. I love everything about you.” 

Cora made loud exclamations of disgust and sank further down in her chair. Stiles actually wondered if she might slide right off it. 

“What _happened_ to you?” Isaac demanded, appalled. “You were _never_ like this before. Not even with Paige. And you were _disgusting_ with her.” 

“Stiles happened,” Cora whined. “It’s his fault. Let’s kill him.” 

Kira laughed, pressing into Stiles’ other side and resting her head on his shoulder, overhappy with good cheer now that she had her best friend back in one piece. “I don’t think it’s so much Stiles as it is Derek couldn’t ever say anything to him before. He’s trying to make up for all the lost time he had with his inability to tell him he loved him.” 

“He told me he loved me all the time,” Stiles argued, nudging her lightly. “Just not with his words.” 

“Ugh, gag.” Cora slid even further. Stiles really _was_ worried she’d fall off her chair. “You two are so gross.” 

“You love it,” Lydia teased.

Cora muttered under her breath, but Stiles grinned at the fact that she didn’t deny it. She was probably just getting tired of seeing them all over each other. It _was_ her brother, after all. 

Stiles’ phone vibrated in his pocket, and he started to ignore it, thinking it was a text message, but the buzzing persisted. When he realized it was a phonecall, he pulled away from Kira and Derek, who both gave him quizzical looks. He got his phone out, and smiled when he saw the name on the screen. 

Showing it to Derek while getting to his feet, his boyfriend smiled and nodded once before turning back to the rest of the pack. Stiles answered while he moved quickly through the house to the stairs, wanting to head up to Derek’s room for some privacy. Not that this was necessarily a private conversation, but he needed a second to breathe anyway.

It had been an emotional day, and it was far from being over, considering what day it was. 

“Hi Satomi. I’m guessing you got my text.”

 _“I did,”_ she said, her voice much more chipper than usual. He could only suspect she was as thrilled as everyone else to learn Derek’s voice was back. That his curse was finally broken. _“I was so very happy to read it. Actually, Derek also texted me, likely just to prove to himself that he could. I decided to leave him be for the evening, I’m sure his pack has been eager for this day and I didn’t want to impose.”_

“Yeah, it’s been pretty great,” Stiles admitted with a laugh, shutting Derek’s bedroom door and moving to sit on his bed. “I’m sure Derek’s tired of talking by now, but none of us want him to stop. He’s basically retelling the past three years in detail to everyone, so we’re in for a long night.” 

Satomi laughed. _“Poor thing. Just make sure he doesn’t lose his voice because you all made him speak too much.”_

“Never,” Stiles insisted. He knew Derek wasn’t going to overdo it, not on his first day, but it was hard letting him stop. Everyone wanted to hear everything he had to say, because they hadn’t had the opportunity to for so long.

Or ever before, in his case. 

He knew tonight was just going to be fun and laughter, which was amazing, but eventually they’d have to talk about his trauma. Stiles didn’t want Derek to live his life not speaking about the things he’d been through, and while he wasn’t planning on making him talk about it immediately, he definitely wasn’t going to let him go another whole year with the emotions and trauma buried deep. 

And with his voice back, there was so much Derek could do now. So many dreams he’d had that he could actually pursue. Like going back to school, and getting a job he actually wanted. They could actually text for real now, and Stiles wouldn’t have a heart attack every time Derek’s name flashed on his screen because Derek could _speak_ now. 

It was still so surreal. Three years he’d known him, and it was literally just because Derek had chosen to move his lips against Stiles’ skin, thinking the words, “I love you” and had _meant them_ that the curse had been broken. 

At that thought, Stiles paused. His mind went back to a conversation he’d had with Satomi a long time ago. Right before he and Derek had left Wyoming with Boyd and Isaac, he’d gone to see her to ask for her help in breaking Derek’s curse. She’d told him that he couldn’t break it with his magic, but that she didn’t doubt he _would_ break it.

Just not how he thought he would. 

“Did you know?” he asked, wondering if she’d had the answer all this time. He didn’t begrudge her if she did, because she couldn’t force Derek to say something he didn’t mean any more than Kate’s curse could force him to speak the words to _her_. But still... “How to break it, I mean. You told me once you knew I’d break it, but not how I thought I would. Did you know?” 

Satomi let out a soft laugh, then sighed happily. It was clear she was thrilled everything had worked out for the better. 

_“As ridiculous as the movies and fairytales are, they’re actually quite right about love being the strongest magic of all.”_ That... was not what Stiles expected to hear. _“Derek was cursed, and conveniently, his curse even **involved** love.”_ When she paused here, Stiles knew she was smiling. _“I knew he loved you. I knew you loved him. Even back then. Even before either of you realized it. I knew that once the feelings manifested, once you were both conscious of them, and once you both finally accepted each other, that the spell would break. I knew eventually, love would **truly** conquer all. And it did.”_

Stiles sighed, burying one hand in his hair and bowing his head, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I want to say that’s sappy, but I can’t, because that’s totally what happened, and it totally worked.” 

_“It did indeed,”_ Satomi said, a hint of teasing in her voice. _“And I’m so very glad it did. I am very happy to hear he finally has his voice back. I can’t wait to hear it.”_

Stiles smiled. “I can’t wait for you to hear it, too. I gotta say, it’s pretty amazing.” 

_“I’ll look forward to officially meeting Alpha Hale.”_

Stiles grinned. 

* * *

The air was hot and muggy and not at all pleasant, even with the sun having long since set. It felt like he could taste the heat, and while a part of him wanted to be annoyed about it, he knew that was just what summer was like. Things would cool down eventually, for now, he just had to tolerate it.

As predicted, it had been a long day. Before the calm and joyful sit-down they’d spent the day doing, there was, of course, the reveal. 

Every new member of the pack who’d arrived at the Hale house had reacted similarly to either Stiles, Cora or Peter. Surprisingly, Boyd was one of the people who’d reacted like Cora. He’d hugged Derek so hard he’d practically lifted him off the ground, and Stiles had never seen the guy so emotional before. 

Kira had started screaming, jumping up and down while hugging the person closest to her, and had proceeded to spend a better part of the morning thrusting random things at Derek and demanding he read them out to her. One of those things had literally been a cereal box, and she’d ordered Derek to read all the ingredients, because she never wanted him to stop talking.

Honestly, Stiles could relate. 

He got overwhelmingly happy with every new pack member that showed up, because they all reacted with so much joy that it made his chest warm and reminded him of how lucky he was to be part of such an amazing family. 

Jackson had been surprised, but happy in his own way. He hadn’t freaked out like some of the others, but had seemed to be a little more like how Peter had reacted. 

His literal first words to Derek upon finding out he could speak were, “I kind of liked being friends with someone who couldn’t talk back. Guess I’ll have to settle for arguing with Stilinski.” 

Stiles knew Jackson was just as happy, even if he’d never admit it. Jackson was just Jackson, it would kill him to admit anything other than smugness. 

After spending close to thirteen hours in the Hale house, Stiles was starting to feel the exhaustion overwhelm him. His brief break with Satomi had been welcome, but it hadn’t been a very long one. And before long, he wanted to leave, not because he wanted to end the festivities, but because it had been an extremely emotional day. 

Not to mention today was the day. He knew Derek didn’t remember. Hell, Stiles had barely remembered, given everything that had happened. 

But today was the day. 

“Hey dad,” he said to the grave marker in front of him. “Sorry I haven’t come by in a while. Been a weird couple of months.” 

He crouched slightly so he was eye level with his father’s name, reaching out to lightly brush his fingers over the smooth engraving in the stone. He let his index trace every letter, reading the words to himself quietly. 

“Noah John Stilinski,” he said softly. “Loving husband. Caring father. Loved his son with all his heart.” 

He felt his eyes begin to water, but forced the tears back. He’d cried enough today, and didn’t want to start again. It was just a really weird day. 

Third year anniversary of the day his father died. Third year anniversary of meeting Derek. And first day ever that he’d heard his voice. It was strange to realize that, of all the days Derek could’ve gotten his voice back, it was today. The best and worst day of his life.

Fitting, he supposed. That Derek would get it back today of all days. 

“Huh,” his companion said, moving up beside him. “Claudia and Noah. How is it you ended up with that atrocity of a name you’ve got? What is it again? Mxyzptlk?” 

Stiles snorted at the DC reference, never having heard that one before. “Mieczyslaw.” 

Jackson shrugged expansively in his periphery. “Same difference.” 

“Dad didn’t go by his given name, either.” Stiles’ fingers went back to his father’s middle name. “He always went by John.” 

“Some of us actually use our real names so we don’t confuse the fuck out of people.” 

“Whatever you say, _Derek_.” 

Stiles smiled when Jackson cuffed him across the back of the head, then said he was going to check out the Hale monument. Stiles listened to him walk away down the row towards where Derek’s family was. Or _his_ family, since he was also a Hale now.

Jackson, like him, had started to feel a little out of place. When Stiles had made for the door, he’d followed along. Stiles didn’t need a chaperone anymore, people would be stupid to come at him given how powerful he’d become, but he supposed it was habit for the others to keep an eye on him. It also gave Jackson an excuse to duck out. 

Stiles was sure this wasn’t what Jackson had in mind when he’d followed Stiles out of the house and offered him a ride, but to his credit, he didn’t bitch about it. Stiles didn’t know if Jackson knew where his parents were buried. He hadn’t really spoken about any of his visits with Meredith, but maybe they hadn’t even gotten that far yet. He hadn’t even known his parents were dead until recently, so the idea of visiting graves was probably a weird concept for him.

Jackson didn’t seem unhappy about being there with him, and he seemed to be doing exceptionally well. Considering the way his life had gone, he actually seemed pretty happy. Functional, even, which was surprising. Stiles was really glad they’d met, he felt like he owed Jackson a lot. 

But this visit wasn’t about Jackson. It was about him and his dad. 

“Derek got his voice back today,” he said quietly. He knew Jackson could hear him, but was hoping he would be polite enough not to listen. Jackson wasn’t exactly _polite_ , but there were some lines even he wouldn’t cross. “It startled me so much I actually thought someone broke in. Or that I was hallucinating.” He smiled slightly. “I don’t even know if you heard him speak. If he was around when I was little, I’m assuming you knew him before the curse. He sounds good, dad. Really good. And he looks happy.” 

That, honestly, was the most important thing for Stiles. It was that Derek looked _happy_. About everything. He smiled more, he laughed more, he made it clear things were going well in his life. And he was already making plans for his future now that his voice was back.

Shit, he was already talking about community college in the fall. His voice had only been back for a few hours and his first thought was school. Stiles wondered what he’d hoped to study before the curse. He wondered if his thoughts on what they’d spoken about when Stiles was looking at university courses had changed. 

He wondered if _they_ would change. He really hoped not. He didn’t feel like Derek being able to speak would change their relationship any. It just meant Derek could yell at him when he was mad now instead of stomping through the loft angrily. 

It also meant Derek could hang out with other people. Stiles was really glad about that, because he’d often worried Derek felt isolated. Sure, they were both fine spending every waking moment together, but Stiles knew that the others in the pack were old childhood friends. He really hoped that now that his voice was back, Derek would feel like he could go out with them again. 

He _wanted_ Derek to go out with them. To spend time with his old friends, to make new ones, to be himself. Deaton had once said Derek didn’t talk much growing up, but that didn’t mean he never had anything to say. Derek had spoken to Stiles a fuckton, in his own way, while he was cursed. Now that he had his voice back, Stiles really hoped he used it. 

“Thought I might find you here.” 

_Speaking of using his voice,_ Stiles thought with a small smile, standing from his crouched position and slapping his hands together before turning. 

Derek was picking his way through the rows of graves, hands in his pockets and eyes on the tombstone that boasted his father’s name. He stopped beside Stiles, wrapping one arm around him and pulling him into his side, kissing his temple. 

“Happy anniversary,” Stiles said with a small scoff. “Sorry I don’t have a cupcake or a pie for you this year.” 

“I know this day is confusing for you,” Derek said softly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” 

“I wanted you to spend time with the others,” he admitted. “This is a big deal for all of you. I didn’t want to ruin it.” 

“ _This_ ,” Derek said, nodding towards the grave, “is a big deal for _you_. I wasn’t going to let the night end without coming here with you. I just didn’t want to push.” 

Stiles just leaned more heavily into Derek, letting out a slow breath. “I had company, don’t worry.” 

“I noticed. Peter’s getting tired of his car being commandeered. Jackson needs to buy his own.” 

“He will. Eventually. When Peter stops letting him commandeer his car.” 

Derek let out a soft laugh, kissing his temple again before they fell silent. They both stared at the two Stilinski graves, Stiles still unable to believe Derek had managed to get him his father despite not being able to speak at the time. 

It was going to be a bit of an adjustment having Derek call out to him. Stiles would probably explode a few lights in fright. Fuck, the first time he _called_ him, or _texted_ him, Stiles was probably going to have a heart attack. In a good way, but still. 

Jackson wandered back over a few minutes later, standing on Derek’s other side with his hands in his pockets, the three of them staring at the graves in front of them. 

“Our family is weird,” Jackson insisted to Derek. “Can’t believe they all thought that thing was worth protecting.” He motioned Stiles. “Can’t believe _I’m_ stuck protecting it, too.” 

“Thanks Jackson,” he said dryly. 

Derek just pulled him tighter into his side, because they both knew Jackson wasn’t good with _feelings_ and was just trying to make himself feel less uncomfortable by being rude. 

“Well, if you two losers can find your own way home, I’m heading to Ethan’s. I’m sure Peter’s going to have the party going until the weekend and I don’t have the patience for that.” He turned to head back for the road, raising one hand in farewell. “Make good choices, or whatever,” he said in parting. 

“Why are we friends with him?” Stiles asked Derek.

“No idea, you’re the one who brought him home.” 

“Right. My fault.” 

Derek smiled over at him, bumped his hip lightly, and then fell silent again. They stood there for an additional ten minutes before Stiles decided to call it a night. It had been over thirty-six hours since either of them had slept, and while Stiles knew from experience that Derek could do that with enough coffee and energy drinks, Stiles really liked sleep. 

He asked if Derek wanted to stop by the Hale monument, but when he shook his head—Jesus _Christ_ , he could shake his head, it was fucking _amazing_ —they just headed back for the Mustang. Derek had parked it illegally on the side of the road, but no one seemed to have noticed it at this hour so they climbed in and headed back to the loft. 

Stiles idly wondered how long it would take for people to notice they’d left. He hadn’t said goodbye to anyone, and he was sure Derek hadn’t, either. Peter had likely noticed them both leave, because he was freakishly observant that way, but Stiles doubted he’d be mad about them bailing without a word. 

When they got back to the loft, Stiles really wanted to shower before bed but he knew he didn’t have the energy so he just headed upstairs to change, Derek following suit. They moved slowly while changing out, both of them tired from a long day of emotions on literally no sleep. 

They got under the covers at the same time, and Stiles shifted closer to Derek so he could curl into him. He was already feeling a bit too warm being curled up against a veritable walking heater, but this was the most comfortable place for him to be so he would suck it up and relish every second of it. 

He was more than ready to pass out for sleep, but Derek nudged at him. Stiles whined, but allowed himself to be manhandled onto his back, and grunted when the Werewolf rolled on top of him, bracing his arms on either side of Stiles’ head. 

Stiles opened his previously closed eyes to watch the man hover over him, Derek’s eyes dark, but the slightest ring of red around his irises. 

“Can I ask you something?” Derek asked.

“You can ask me anything you want,” Stiles insisted. Because he would never get over being able to hear his voice like this. 

Derek seemed to hesitate, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, but it was clear it was something that had been bothering him for a long time. 

“Why me?” 

Stiles frowned. “What?” 

“You’re the Spark. You change the lives of everyone you come into contact with. You could’ve had anyone you wanted, including multiple people in Satomi’s pack.” 

Stiles had only known about Heather, but he supposed others had been smart enough to see how things had gone between her and Stiles and had decided to cut their losses. 

“I was an angry, cursed, overprotective Werewolf. I wasn’t even that nice to you at the beginning, because I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.” 

Stiles almost laughed at the swear word, but managed to hold it together. It wouldn’t be appropriate the laugh right now, not when Derek was basically baring his soul. 

“But every time I pushed, you pushed back. We had our bumps along the way, it took some time, but I never understood how you could look at me, someone who couldn’t speak, couldn’t even nod, and just... _knew_ me. I never understood how you decided, out of everyone, that _I_ was what you wanted when I couldn’t even express myself. So why me?” 

It was hard not to tell Derek that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard, but he somehow managed it. 

Why him? Why _him_? Was he serious? He thought Stiles didn’t know him? Sure, there were _some_ things he didn’t know, but to be fair, there were a lot of things about Stiles that _Derek_ didn’t know, either. They were still getting to know each other every day, and that was something they would continue to do regardless of whether or not Derek had his voice back. 

“Why you?” Stiles repeated, letting out a small laugh. “ _Because_ ,” he insisted, smiling mischievously and wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck to tug him down. Derek allowed it, resting more of his weight on top of Stiles. “Haven’t you heard? Actions speak louder than words. And you, Mr. Hale, are a man of action.” 

Derek snorted and rolled his eyes, pressing his forehead against Stiles’ briefly before shifting so he could kiss it instead. “You’re such a loser, Stiles.” 

“Takes one to know one.” 

“Shut up and kiss me.” 

Easiest order he’d ever received. 

Stiles was only too happy to oblige. 

After all, Stiles had been waiting what felt like his entire life to hear Derek’s voice. He was going to obey everything that ever came out of his mouth for the rest of his existence. 

Except if it had to do with cookies. Derek could not order him out of eating cookies. 

Anything else though? That was fair game.

Stiles couldn’t wait to wake up to this all over again tomorrow. And the next day.

And the next day.

For the rest of his life. 

**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Copyright Shit:  
> \- Valkyrie/Thor (c) Marvel  
> \- Mxyzptlk (c) DC


	25. Epilogue: I Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For someone who loves writing a lot of dialogue, this fic was FUCKING TORTURE! God, I’ve never struggled so much to write something without thoroughly hating it so much before in my life. Why did I think this was a good idea?!  
> And somehow, this is hilariously my longest fic. Not ever, but still. Very long. Stupid me for silent Derek. 
> 
> If you stuck around to the end, thank you <3 I hope you enjoyed and sorry that it dragged <3<3

_“Aw, baby. I know it hurts. I know you want it to stop. I want it to stop, too. But you know what I want. All you have to do is say it. Just say it, and this will all go away.”_

_“Fuck you.”_

_“Come on, Derek. We’ve been playing this game for days. I love you. Don’t you love me?”_

_“I’d love for you to go **die**.”_

_“That’s not very nice. Come on Derek, it’s just three little words. Just three words, and I’ll make it stop. Or you can stay there in silence like that. Actually, I don’t mind the quiet. How about we make a little deal? You say those three little words, and I don’t make you regret it.”_

_“Go fuck yourself.”_

_“Oh sweetie. You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that. And I’m going to enjoy waiting for you to say what I want to hear. Because if you don’t, you’ll never say anything ever again.”_

* * *

“Derek!” 

Said man turned his head from his position by the door, one hand on Stiles’ lower back. He smiled before turning fully, bending down to catch Rose when she launched herself at him and picking her up easily. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his skin and clearly pouting. Derek knew it was likely because she was tired, it was almost midnight. She got overly dramatic when she was tired. 

“No, you can’t go! You just got here!” 

Derek couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped him at those words, rubbing gently at her back while Stiles laughed softly beside him. 

“We’ve been here for five hours,” his boyfriend insisted, reaching up and tugging playfully at Rose’s ponytail. Derek knew she’d turned her pout on Stiles when she shifted in his arms to look at him. Alex was moving through the house to meet them, a fond smile on her face. 

“Derek and Stiles need to leave,” she said once she’d reached them, one hand coming up to rub smoothly up and down the little girl’s back while she smiled at Stiles and Derek. “We should all be leaving, it is _way_ past your bedtime.” 

“No,” Rose insisted, turning her face back into Derek’s neck and holding on for dear life. Derek let out another small chuckle and gave her a little bounce in his arms. 

Alex was still smiling, and it looked like she was trying to resist letting a laugh escape her. “I know, my love,” she insisted, Rose turning her head slightly so she could look at her mother. Alex reached out to brush some dark hair off her forehead, somehow able to resist the nine-year-old’s puppy dog eyes. “But Derek and Stiles are very important people, and they have very important things to do tomorrow.” 

Derek was kind of looking forward to that meeting. He knew Stiles wasn’t, given he’d have to do all the talking, and he’d much rather stay home and be a couch potato, but it was for a good cause. It was the only reason Stiles had agreed, and Derek was grateful. He knew Stiles would always agree, because he very rarely said no to Derek, but he still appreciated it. 

“We’ll come visit you and spend the whole day. Saturday, okay?” Stiles said to Rose, moving closer to Derek, like he wanted to stay in his space. Derek loved that. 

“Promise?” Rose’s sad voice demanded. 

“Promise,” Stiles replied, poking at her nose and smiling. Derek loved his smile, it was fucking gorgeous. “You can even hoard Derek all to yourself, I’m getting tired of him anyway.” Stiles winked at her, then cast a glance at him.

Derek pretended to look offended at his words, but he knew it was working on Rose. She managed to smile, and her scent had shifted more towards exhaustion rather than genuine sadness. Derek knew she was only sad because she was so tired, but he much preferred it when she didn’t sound and smell like his departure was the end of the world.

He was likely going to see her at some point tomorrow. Maybe. He wasn’t sure what the plans for tomorrow were barring the visit with the mayor, given it was also the worst day of the year for Stiles. 

Derek felt his chest clench for a brief moment at the reminder. It was the day he and Stiles had formally met, but it was also the day Stiles had lost his father. Derek himself had been upset by the news, but he hadn’t exactly had the chance to grieve, and a part of him felt like he hadn’t had a right. It wasn’t _his_ father, even if he’d loved the man dearly. 

Mr. Stilinski was an amazing person, a caring man, a loving father. Derek understood Stiles’ grief over his passing, and he knew tomorrow was going to be a difficult day for him. He would be there, though. Like he always was. He would be there for Stiles and just hoped this year was easier than the last. 

Derek knew from experience that the pain never went away, it just dulled ever so slightly as the days passed. 

He started slightly when Alex pulled Rose from his arms, having lost track of the conversation since he was thinking about Stiles’ miserable day tomorrow. He relinquished her to her mother—still loving that Alex was well and truly her _mother_ now, since the adoption papers had all been signed and approved—and watched Stiles wave tiredly to everyone in farewell. 

When they headed out the door, Derek pressed one hand lightly to Stiles’ back, not needing to stick so close, but always happy whenever his boyfriend allowed him into his personal space. He knew it had to be annoying sometimes, but Derek could never get enough of being close to Stiles. He didn’t need to protect him anymore, not really, but that didn’t mean he would stop being all up in his space whenever possible. 

They split at the car, moving to either side while Derek unlocked it with the click of a button and climbed behind the wheel. Stiles was probably tired, because he was quiet beside him, but still smiling slightly, lips curled upwards, like he was happy. 

Derek was glad. All he’d ever wanted was for Stiles to be happy. He hated that tomorrow was such a confusing day for him, but at least for now, Stiles was smiling. 

When his boyfriend suddenly laughed out of nowhere, Derek turned to glance at him, arching an eyebrow in inquiry, but he just got an impish smile in return. 

“Don’t worry about it, just had a funny thought,” Stiles insisted with a wink. Derek eyed him for a moment longer, but Stiles didn’t elaborate so he just shrugged it off and turned at the end of the road to head for home. 

As long as Stiles was happy, it didn’t matter why. Derek didn’t need to know, so long as the smile never left his face. 

Once they reached the loft, Stiles moved a bit more slowly to the door, clearly tired and looking forward to sleep. Derek felt bad they’d stayed so late, but he never knew when to call it quits. Stiles always looked so happy and energetic when they were with the pack and doing fun things together, he didn’t want to cut the nights short and have him miss out on anything. 

He’d missed out on enough in his life, Derek didn’t want to be the reason he missed out on even more. 

When the door was locked behind them, Derek helped Stiles to the stairs and up them to the loft—he’d never admit that he hadn’t gotten the lights fixed downstairs because he loved the excuse to be close to Stiles for even just a few more second. As soon as the loft door was opened, Stiles bounced away from him and stuck his tongue out while disappearing into the bathroom. Derek rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile that crossed his features while he slid the loft door shut. 

Stiles didn’t take long in the shower, maybe about ten minutes. It was clear he just wanted to clean off the day’s dirt and sweat so he was presentable in the morning without having to shower before heading out. 

“See you upstairs,” Stiles said when he and Derek switched places, the Werewolf having put Stiles’ pyjamas on the dining table since Stiles had forgotten them in his haste to get to the shower first. 

Derek set his clean boxer-briefs on the bathroom counter, then sighed and rolled his eyes again when he found Stiles’ discarded clothes on the floor. He had a bad habit of leaving them there whenever he showered. Derek just stripped out of his own clothes, adding them to the pile so he could bring everything upstairs once he was done. 

Turning on the water, he climbed into the still muggy shower and ducked his head under the spray, spitting out water while bowing his head and running both hands through his hair. 

He stared at the water while it swirled down the drain, letting out a small sigh and bracing his hands on the tile in front of him, water cascading down over him and shutting his eyes. 

_I love you._

Derek hated those words. He hated them, because he wanted so badly to be able to say them to Stiles. He wanted him to know how much he meant to him, how much he’d _changed_ him. Stiles didn’t often think about the amazing things he’d done for other people, but they had the ability to show him, to remind him, to _thank_ him. 

Jackson had given him that Superman present. Caleb had invited him out for coffee. Diana always made Stiles little ice sculptures that were slowly but surely taking up the entire freezer because Stiles wanted to keep every single one of them. 

Everyone had the ability to tell Stiles how important he was to them, how much they cared about him. Derek always tried, and he knew Stiles understood, but it felt so inadequate when compared to how much he’d truly done for him. 

Derek hadn’t ever thought he’d have something like this. He’d basically given up when it became clear his own sister couldn’t understand him. Laura had tried. So hard. She’d done everything she could, and was the reason half of the loopholes they knew about existed. But she couldn’t read him like Stiles could.

Nobody could read him like Stiles could. 

He’d honestly given up by the time he’d been forced to take drastic measures with Stiles, that day three years ago when his father was killed and Derek had received the phonecall from said man moments before he died. He was going to do what was needed, protect Stiles, keep him hidden and safe, but he honestly hadn’t expected things to be any different. 

The first few days had been uncomfortable, and difficult. Stiles hated him, for starters, so that had made things complicated. But even while hating him, Derek could make specific facial expressions, and Stiles just... _understood_. Nobody else had ever caught on so quickly before, and the more time they spent together, the easier it was.

Derek had spent five years of his life after Kate’s curse thinking nobody would ever hear him again. And then Stiles came into the picture, and the past three years were like he wasn’t even cursed at all. 

It gave him a reason to wake up in the morning. A reason to have thoughts and desires, because he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he could express them to Stiles, and he would _understand_. It was such a relief having just _one person_ hear him, even when he wasn’t saying anything. 

Derek knew Stiles felt liked he owed him. He knew Stiles felt like he could never repay him for everything he’d done for him. But it was backwards. _Derek_ was the one who could never repay _Stiles_ for everything he’d done for _him_. 

He hadn’t meant to fall in love with him. He’d been more than happy being friends with him, having him in his life, spending time with him in a platonic sense. Falling for him had been an accident, and he’d honestly never imagined Stiles would _ever_ feel the same way.

How could he, after everything?

But Stiles just kept giving. He gave, and gave, and gave, without even seeming to realize he was doing it. Derek loved him. So much. He loved him with everything he had, he never wanted to be apart from him ever again. 

_I love you._

He wanted to say those words to him. He wanted him to _know_ , truly know, how much Derek loved him. 

But he couldn’t. He could never say them to him. Because Kate had made that an impossibility.

Derek reached up to rub at his throat, chest tightening with an ache he often felt at the thought of how badly he wished he could tell Stiles how much he meant to him. Maybe he’d write him another song. It seemed wholly inadequate when considering everything Stiles had done for him, but it was all he had.

And even that ‘voice’ was something Stiles had given him. 

He realized he’d been lingering in the shower and hadn’t even cleaned himself off yet. He didn’t want to keep Stiles waiting, so he didn’t bother washing up and just turned the water back off, sliding his hands back through his wet hair and letting out a slow breath. 

Grabbing his towel, he dried off quickly, relieved himself, put on his shorts and brushed his teeth. When he was ready to go, he gathered up their laundry and opened the bathroom door, turning off the downstairs light on his way to the stairs. Once he was in the bedroom, he dumped their dirty clothes in the laundry, then picked up Stiles’ discarded towel and added it to the pile, as well. 

Stiles was cocooned in the blankets, like he always was when Derek joined him. As soon as he slid under the covers though, his boyfriend rolled into him immediately, nuzzling into his chest and smiling to himself with his eyes closed. Derek smiled too, shifting to wrap both arms around Stiles and pulling him closer while the other man sighed happily. 

Closing his eyes as well, Derek squeezed Stiles just once, face buried in his still damp hair.

_I love you._

He released his tight hold on him, but kept his arms wrapped securely around him. 

“Night,” Stiles mumbled sleepily into his chest, rubbing his cheek against it, like he was a Werewolf himself and trying to scent him. Derek almost laughed, because it was clear he was on the verge of passing out. 

He grunted in response. _Good night._

His face was still buried in Stiles’ damp hair, lips pressed against his scalp. He opened his mouth to speak, even as he knew nothing would come out. He could even tell his lips weren’t forming the words he was saying, because the curse was such a fucking _bitch_ that even lip-reading was out of the fucking question.

_You’re everything. You mean so much to me, Stiles. You have no idea. I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me. How important you are to me. How amazing you are._

He let one hand slide slowly up Stiles’ back, then down once more. He started rubbing it slowly, knowing that it helped Stiles fall asleep. He always seemed to like the small touches, the little comforts and reminders that Derek was right there beside him. And Derek never got tired of being close to him, so it wasn’t a hardship. 

He could hear Stiles’ breathing beginning to even out, his heart rate slowing ever so slightly, proving he was on the verge of passing out. 

Derek let his hand slow the tiniest bit. Sometimes, if he rubbed Stiles’ back repeatedly, and then stopped when Stiles fell asleep, he woke up again. Derek had mastered the artform of rubbing his back, keeping track of his breathing and his heart rate to determine when he needed to slow the drag of his hand up and down his spine so that when he stopped, it didn’t wake him again. 

Sighing against Stiles’ hair, lips still pressed to his skin, he wondered about how he’d survived so long without this amazing man in his life. How grateful he was to have him by his side. How much he meant to him. How much he loved him.

_I love you._

Derek wanted to say the words to him. He always wanted to say the words to him. But he couldn’t, and it hurt that he couldn’t. He _hated_ that he couldn’t. 

But he tried anyway, just like he always tried to speak to Stiles, to tell him how much he meant to him.

_You’re my everything._

“I love you.” 

Stiles nuzzled against his chest again, still this side of awake, and Derek’s hand paused on his back when he said, “I love you too, big guy.” 

Too.

I love you _too_. 

Stiles had said ‘I love you _too_ ’! 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t said that before, with ‘too’ on the end. But it was rare, because Stiles almost always said ‘I love you’ to him first, with Derek being able to show him he meant it back. The few times he’d said he loved him _too_ , Derek had done something that very clearly conveyed what he was feeling. 

Stiles was almost unconscious. He’d been passing out beside him, and he couldn’t see Derek’s face. And Derek wasn’t doing anything differently tonight compared to any other night, so why had he said ‘I love you _too_ ’?! 

It felt like seconds and years passed all at the same time, Derek’s mind going a mile a minute. 

Because—had he said that out _loud_?! But then, if he had, wouldn’t Stiles have reacted? Surely if he had, then Stiles—

Stiles shifted in Derek’s arms, sitting up while looking around the room with a small furrow between his brows. He looked tired, and confused, and when he turned to glance down at Derek, his frown deepened. 

“Did you hear that?” he asked, the confusion bleeding into his words. 

_Did you hear that?_ he said. Like there was something to hear. Like Stiles had _heard something_ but couldn’t place what it was. 

Like Stiles had heard something, and had responded to it automatically, even though it was impossible. 

Derek felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

Had he actually...? Did those words _actually_...? 

It was impossible. It was _impossible_! 

But then, wasn’t everything about Stiles impossible? 

Stiles grunted while slowly rearranging himself so he could lie back down. “So weird. I swear, for a second I thought—”

“Stiles.” 

Honestly, Derek was so used to hearing his own voice in his head that he didn’t know if the name had come out at all. Maybe he just _thought_ he’d spoken. Maybe he just _thought_ the words hard enough that Stiles had reacted to them. Maybe he just _wanted_ it to be real. 

But the second Stiles froze, about to lie back down, and stared at Derek like he’d never seen him before, he knew. 

Stiles’ heart did something weird in his chest, and then started beating double-time. His eyes were wide, his breathing was shallow, and it looked like he thought he’d lost his mind. 

“Derek?” he asked, almost hesitantly. As if he couldn’t believe it. 

As if he thought he was going insane. 

Derek thought he was going insane, too. But he’d said he loved him, and Stiles had _heard it_. And he’d said his name, and Stiles had _stopped_. 

He sat up, still staring at him. At the one person in the world that he loved more than anything. At the one person in the world he’d _wanted_ to say those words to. 

“Stiles,” he said again, because he needed to say his name again. He needed to feel the way it rolled off his tongue, how it sounded out loud, how it felt as the name slid up his throat. 

_Stiles_. The person he loved more than anything in the world. Fucking _Stiles_! 

“Oh my God!” Stiles practically shouted, and that was all the confirmation Derek needed. 

This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a hallucination. This _wasn’t_ just Derek _wishing_ Stiles could hear him. 

Stiles _could_ hear him. Stiles could hear everything coming out of his mouth. Because Derek could speak. Because the curse had broken.

Because _Stiles_ had broken it just by existing. 

His hands were on Stiles’ face before he could stop himself and he yanked him forward, crushing their lips together. His heart was slamming in his chest, and he could hardly _breathe_ he was so overwhelmed, but he didn’t care. He kissed Stiles like his life depended on it, even when his boyfriend shoved at him, and eventually started hitting him, trying to get him to back off.

Derek didn’t _want_ to back off. He could _speak_. He’d told Stiles he _loved him_! It was the only thing he’d ever truly wanted to be able to say to him, and the words had actually _come out of his fucking mouth_! 

When Stiles’ smacking got a bit more violent, Derek took pity on him and broke the kiss, only for Stiles to slap at him even harder. 

“Oh my _God_! Why are you _kissing_ me?!” he demanded, sounding _furious_. Like kissing was the last thing he wanted to be doing right now. When Derek shifted closer again, Stiles shoved at him once more, forcing him back as far as he could get him. “Stop kissing me! Oh my God, you can _talk_! Keep talking! Say something! Fucking _anything_!” Because he’d managed to put a bit of space between them, it allowed Stiles to roll away from him. 

Derek didn’t want that. He didn’t care what Stiles was doing, he didn’t want him rolling away. So when Stiles did so, he followed, crawling right over him and kissing along his exposed shoulder, and his neck, and the side of his face while Stiles struggled to grab his phone. 

“Would you _stop_ kissing me!” Stiles shouted while he unlocked his phone and went to his browser. Derek had no idea what he was doing, but he didn’t care, holding him tightly and continuing to pepper kisses anywhere he could. “You’ve been kissing me for months, use that mouth for something else!” The phone was thrust in his face, almost smacking him, but Derek didn’t care. He didn’t care, because Stiles’ next words were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Read this! Read this entire thing out loud right now!” 

**_I love you!_ **

He could say it out loud, now. He could say anything and everything he’d ever wanted to say to Stiles _out loud_ now! 

He wrenched the phone out of Stiles’ hand and tossed it away without caring where it ended up or if he’d broken it. Stiles was half-twisted beneath him from the attempt to get him to read what he’d pulled up on his phone, so Derek turned him all the way over onto his back and pinned him down on the bed, both of their heads half-hanging off the side from their position. 

“God, you drive me _crazy_!” He grabbed Stiles’ face and kissed him like he would never be able to stop. Because this was _Stiles_ , and he’d always said he could do it. He’d always said he was going to break Derek’s curse. He’d always _promised_ he would get his voice back.

And he had. He fucking _had_! It was all Stiles.

It was always Stiles.

“I love you so much.” He was going to tell him that so many _fucking_ times, because now that he could, he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to _stop_! He had to alternate between kissing Stiles to show him how much he loved him, and _telling_ him how much he loved him. It was a fine line, and he mouthed open kisses along Stiles’ jaw up to his ear. “Fuck, Stiles, you have no idea how much I love you. How much you mean to me. How badly I needed you to know.” 

Stiles was trembling beneath him, but Derek knew it was because he was overwhelmed. Derek was overwhelmed too, but he couldn’t stop to think about that. All he could do was hold on tight and make sure Stiles knew how much he meant to him. 

“Oh my God,” Stiles said again, like he didn’t know what else to say. His arms were around Derek, holding on for dear life, and Derek felt his chest clench for a completely different reason when the room suddenly got entirely too bright. 

Because Stiles’ hands were glowing. Because he was happy. Because he was so, _so_ happy. 

And Derek was happy, too. Fucking ecstatic. 

Because of Stiles.

Because of _Stiles_!

“I should’ve said it sooner,” Derek said, feeling stupid while he kissed and sucked at Stiles’ neck. He’d loved him for so long. _So_ long! Why hadn’t he just _said_ so?! Why hadn’t he _tried_ before today? 

He knew why. Because it hurt. Because he couldn’t say it. Because it was the only thing he’d ever wanted Stiles to know. He knew why, but he hated that he hadn’t tried sooner. 

“I’ve wanted to, but it hurt not being able to say it aloud. I needed you to know, I’ve _wanted_ you to know. Fuck, Stiles, you’re _everything_.” 

“Seriously,” Stiles said, voice tight, like he was struggling to hold back his emotions, even while he clung to Derek like he’d die if he let him go. “Can you like, recite your favourite book or something? I swear to God, I need you to never stop talking.” Stiles buried his face against Derek’s neck, tightening his grip. “I need to hear your voice forever.” 

Derek couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him then. He felt like it sounded borderline hysterical, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had his voice back. He could _speak_. And Stiles...

Stiles was so happy. He was so happy he couldn’t stop shaking. He was so happy his hands were bright enough to blind someone. He was so happy, and he didn’t even seem to realize this was all entirely because of him. 

Derek’s voice was back because of _him_. 

Everything good in his life, every single _good thing_ that had ever happened to Derek, it was all because of Stiles. 

Everything was because of Stiles.

He loved him so God damn much, he could hardly _stand_ it.

And now, finally, _finally_ , he could say it.

Finally, Derek could say those words to the one person who deserved to hear them the most.

And finally, Stiles _knew_. 

_I love you._

**True End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Chapter Tags:  
> The beginning part is about Kate cursing Derek. It's only dialogue, and it's extremely short.
> 
> WELP! That's it. Thank you for coming on this crazy adventure with me, and I hope you enjoyed it \o/  
> And in case anyone is curious about how my brain works (which you might not be but I find my brain hilarious, I'll have you know), this ENTIRE 400k+ fic came about ENTIRELY like this: "I want Derek to drag Stiles out of his Jeep. Maybe he's mute. Oh, maybe he's CURSED! MAYBE STILES IS MAGIC!" and that was literally the entire premise of this fic. Writing a mute Derek dragging a magical Stiles out of his Jeep. And it somehow turned into 400k+ words of this... 
> 
> ANYWAY. Bye! o/

**Author's Note:**

> Come chill with me on [Tumblr](https://isthatbloodonhisshirt.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Actions Speak Louder than Words](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306512) by [Faladrast (surfgirl1)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surfgirl1/pseuds/Faladrast)




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